Counterpoint
by Jackfan
Summary: FINAL CHAPTER. Alternative S3 using elements up to 3.7. Jack angst, JI, JackSyd, JackIrinaSloane mission fic. Daily updates.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Counterpoint 

**Rating**: PG-13, language, suggestive situations, violence.  

**Disclaimer**: All characters are the property of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot.  

**Spoilers**: Through 3.10.  

**Credits**: **RocknVaughn**, at SD-1.com, for transcripts; **Bwaybaby** for sanity checking.

**Summary**:  Alternative Season 3, using most of the elements presented up to 3.7, with the following exceptions:  Sloane does not kill Lindsey, and Sydney does not do the dream sequence work from Conscious (thus, no Will).  It starts with missing scenes from The Two then evolves towards a Jack/Irina /Sloane mission fic.  J/I, Jack angst, Jack/Syd.  Unhealthy dollops of Sloane thrown in.  Occasional secondary characters appear as the urge strikes me.

**Author's note**:  This fic is a mosaic of present time and flashbacks.  The flashbacks are not in order; I'm hoping that where they slot into the timeline is self-evident.  I have selectively used transcript elements from Season 3, but have not attempted to incorporate ALL Season 3 elements.  Thus, some transcript material has been altered to better fit the storyline.

The title refers to the opposing perspectives (many times within the same chapter, sometimes back-to-back chapters) that this fic contains.

The build is slow and the plot is complex.  Chapter length varies considerably.  Enjoy.

**Chapter 1**

"Wallet."

"Keys."

"Watch."  

"Sign here."  A paper rustled, then slid through the barred window.

He hesitated as he scrutinized the form.  "The date?" he asked evenly.

"October 4th," said a bored voice.  "2005" it added after a moment's thought, glancing at the file.

His hand froze as his eye was involuntarily drawn to the date in the line above.  September 27, 2004.  

_"What am I being charged with?" he had demanded, incredulous, as the guards had approached him with handcuffs._

_"Resisting authority."_

_"Resisting authority?  Since when was 'resisting authority' an arrestable offense?" He had jumped to his feet, furious now._

_"We're not arresting you.  We're *detaining* you."  A sneer formed.  "Welcome to the war on terror."  _

_"You're bluffing."_

_"This is your last chance.  We've got a cell that's going to be filled.  It's hers. . . or yours."_

His grip on the pen tightened, then slowly eased.  A year of his life in the stroke of a pen.  Silently the form was completed and passed back through the slot.

"Next!"

"That's it?  I'm done?"  Feet shuffled impatiently behind him on the worn linoleum.

A jerk of the head.  "Down the hall.  Past the guard.  Through the double doors.  Bus'll drop you off in downtown LA."

Disbelievingly, he moved down the hallway.  Curling posters on the walls exhorted him to report to a parole officer, stay clean, get a job.  With each step he took, he listened for steps behind him.  A traitorous whisper of hope was ruthlessly silenced.  This had to be another NSC mind game.  They wouldn't let him just walk out - he'd given them nothing.  *Nothing*_._  Except a year of his life.  _20 feet to go_, came the whisper.

"Stop," the guard barked behind him.

He halted, jaw clenched, not glancing back.  Took a deep, steadying breath.  Schooled his face to not betray him.

The guard trotted up and pressed something into his hand.  Numbly he looked down.  A white envelope.  "I was told to give you this.  Hurry up or you'll miss the bus."

Swaying slightly, he jammed the envelope into his pocket and started off again.  10 feet.  5 feet.  The door swung open.

It was over.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 (Provence) 

The mid-day rays slanted through the study window, dancing with the dust motes before lighting the face of the woman taking notes from a small parchment.  She looked older now, the signs of tension and worry more prominent on her face.  The desk at which she sat was a particular favorite of hers, its smooth dark patina a testament to generations gone by.  A reminder that the passage of time, which eased all pain and revealed all truths, was her most trusted ally.

Except for the past year.  She paused in her writing and glanced over at the calendar out of habit.  Her grip on the pen tightened, then slowly eased.  October 4, 2005.  372 days.    Solitary, she knew from her sources.  No visitors.  

She had not wept, anytime in that past year.  Not for him, not for them.  Weakness, even for a fleeting moment, was not a luxury she could afford.  His last, hasty coded message - "_Alive._ _Find her_" followed by their emergency symbol - had told her all she needed to know.  He believed their daughter was alive.  He had been compromised.  He trusted her to do it alone.

Alone.  

_Together they lay tangled on the bed in the late afternoon sun, their thirst temporarily quenched, his hand slowly tracing small circles on her skin.  Even now, she sensed with sorrow, he was restless.  The fires of his anger and despair were banked for the moment, but the haunted look in his eyes remained.  _

_She reached up and lightly stroked his face, trying in vain to erase the lines that grief had formed. Reading the far-away look in his eyes, she said softly, "We'll find out what happened.  I promise."_

_At her words his eyes refocused on the woman in his arms. For all that separated them, rage at their daughter's death bound them as never before.  He gazed at her pensively, wondering when their business arrangement had become something more.  If she knew the desperation he felt when they were apart.  The darkness of his soul that threatened to overcome him, which only she could lighten.  For without his daughter, without her, he had. . ..nothing. "Irina, I -,"_

_She placed her fingers on his lips, willing him to stop.   Words uttered now, in the depth of their anguish, when their need for each other was greatest, might be regretted later.  Shared rage was not enough.   Time enough for words once they had discovered what had happened to their daughter.  And buried the person responsible._

_He sighed in acceptance.  "When can we meet again?" he asked instead, softly tracing the outline of her jaw._

_"Jack, I don't think - ,"_

_"Since when were you the cautious one?" They made such a good team, the two of them.  She, impetuous and daring; he cautious and thorough; both brilliant and ruthless.  A shame they had come to that realization too late.  Too late to make a difference in the only thing that mattered._

_"I'm not exactly flavor-of-the-month at the CIA, Jack," she reminded reprovingly.  "You need to be careful."_

_"Don't worry," he'd said in quiet confidence.  "The CIA doesn't have a clue."_

Something had happened, something he had not foreseen.  Which had left only one of them to help their daughter.  And she had.

But every hour she had spent frantically searching, every hour spent trying to reverse the damage done to their daughter, had been another hour he had spent alone in his cell.  Staking his sanity on her ability to save Sydney.  On his belief that he could trust her in this, if nothing else.

That trust, given easily the first time, more grudgingly the second, had shaken her to the core.  It was a measure of their relationship, she thought to herself despondently, that each time he trusted her he went to prison.  _It's done_, she wanted to scream.  _She's safe_.  _Cooperate now, you stubborn fool.  Give them what they want.  _She bowed her head, knowing the key that kept him in prison.  

_Give them me_.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 

The ancient prison bus rumbled along the freeway on its way to LA.  Jack sat alone towards the back, dazed, trying to shake off the feeling of unreality that saturated him.  Absently he rubbed his wrists where shackles had been only an hour previously.

_"Bristow.  Hands through the door."_

_A bolt of fury rippled through Jack at the unexpected disruption in his routine.  A symptom, he knew, as he took several deep breaths to calm himself.  His mind was grasping onto patterns in an attempt to maintain its stability.  His schedule was so predictable, so consistent, that any deviation was disorienting.  Monitored by cameras, served food remotely through a slot in the door, his only human contact came once each day when he was escorted to exercise.  But it was too early for that.  _

_"Now, asshole."_

_With the ease of long practice, Jack repressed his instincts and docilely put his hands through the door for shackles to be attached. He had openly defied the guards once, in the early days, when his simmering anger at his arbitrary imprisonment had boiled over.  Six guards in full riot gear, armed with truncheons, had burst through his cell door.  The subsequent beating he had taken had reminded him that, in a federal prison, the odds were stacked in favor of the house._

_The door swung open, and the guard in the hallway gestured impatiently for Jack to exit.  "C'mon, you f*cking idiot."_

_Jack's eyes flicked to the guard as he speculated on the minimum requirements to be a federal prison employee.  Swallowing his retort, he obediently followed the guard down a hallway towards a part of the prison that was unfamiliar to him.  The guard halted at a doorway and roughly shoved Jack into a windowless room.  "Strip," said one of the two guards inside in a bored tone.  _

_Strip-search, he told himself wearily.  Wordlessly Jack held out his hands to have the handcuffs removed, shucked off his jumpsuit, and waited.  And was dumbfounded when his street clothes were pressed into his hands.  "What. . . ?"  He was afraid to complete the sentence._

_"You're going home."_

Home.  He stared out the window of the bus, looking down into the cars.  A green minivan - a mother with her children on their way to school.  A red convertible, top down in the Indian summer - a young couple on their way to the beach.  A gray sedan - a group of elderly women on their way to - what, he wondered?  They all laughed and chatted together in the car below him as it sped by.  Jack tried to imagine their lives, normal lives, not contaminated by treachery and deceit.  Without success.  Tiredly he turned away from the window.  

Why had the NSC freed him?  They had been so close - had they given up?  Didn't they realize they'd been handed the one point of leverage that might finally have broken him?  Or. . . his heart lurched.did they no longer need his information?  _Irina._  Had they captured her?  Was she dead?  His mind reeled.  _Stop it_, whispered a small voice.  _Don't think about her.  It makes you weak._

He rubbed his hand over his eyes, struggling to concentrate.  So many things could have changed in the past year, he realized.  His daughter, who'd he'd thought was dead, was alive.  Irina, who'd he'd trusted to find her, apparently hadn't.  Alliances would have changed, power shifted.  He would need to be careful.  Very careful.

"Union Station," called out the driver, as the bus pulled into the terminal with a whine.  Other prisoners shambled past while Jack sluggishly returned to the present.  He'd fight world domination later.  Right now, what he wanted most was a hot shower.  Lurching to his feet, he shuffled down the aisle and stepped down from the bus.

Only to stagger backwards in alarm as he was assaulted from all sides.  By the glare of the sun.  By the sound of car horns.  By the press of people on all sides.  By the smell of diesel fumes.  Involuntarily, he threw his arm up and backed up against a wall.  Closing his eyes, he willed his heart to stop racing and his breathing to slow.  Sensory deprivation.  He'd forgotten.  Swallowing, he tentatively opened his eyes and scanned his surroundings, letting the sights and sounds of an urban environment wash over him, fighting the urge to run.

Bleakly he noticed that most of the prisoners exiting the bus had someone waiting for them.  Naturally, he'd never expect Sydney to. . . but still. . . he stifled the thought as he confirmed that she was not there.  Of course not.  She had enough problems of her own to deal with.

And really, he thought standing straighter, he should be helping her instead of cowering here in the shadows.  Cautiously he made his way down to the corner to hail a cab.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
  
The taxi, redolent with incense, cigarette smoke, and sweat, wove through the streets of downtown LA In the background, the radio played tunes Jack didn't recognize and quickly decided he didn't care for.   
  
What now? He remembered the envelope with a start, and dug it out of his pocket. The message inside was cryptic. "Report to the Director of Joint Ops." He read it twice through, then crumpled it in anger. Those b*stards. They had stood by and done nothing while the NSC railroaded him into prison. If they thought for a minute that he was going to meekly report back in to work...  
  
...but of course he would, he admitted in resignation. It was his best chance to help Sydney. If by some miracle he regained his clearance, could utilize CIA resources, they'd be able to work together on finding out what had happened to her.   
  
Jack looked up and caught the taxi driver studying him curiously in the rearview mirror.   
  
"How 'bout those Dodgers? Can you believe they made the Series?" asked the driver, catching Jack's eye.  
  
"Yeah, great," Jack muttered looking away, suddenly realizing that he knew nothing that had happened in the past year. He looked up to see the driver watching him again. "Is there a problem?" he asked coldly.  
  
"Uh, is that beard real?"  
  
Jack shifted slightly so that he could see himself in the mirror. Sh*t. No wonder he had had so much trouble getting a cab to stop for him. The combination of the suit and beard made him look like something out of a circus sideshow. "Yeah," he responded, casting about in his mind for a suitable explanation for a year's worth of untrimmed growth. "I - ,"  
  
"-just got out of prison, didn't you?" supplied the driver quietly. "The Dodgers aren't in the Series. They washed out in August."  
  
Jack's jaw tightened in aggravation. Wonderful. He'd lost the ability to think on his feet as well. Blew the cover story; missed the sucker question. If he'd been on a mission, he'd be dead now.   
  
"My brother had the same look about him when he got out," the driver offered as explanation.  
  
Jack said nothing, just stared out the window willing the cab to go faster. He wasn't in the mood for sharing.  
  
"Anyone expecting you, where we're going?"  
  
"No," said Jack shortly. "I live alone." The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, he thought dully.  
  
"All the same, you might want to do something about that hair. Neighbors talk, you know." The taxi slid to a stop at the curb. 'Mario's Barbershop' read the sign on the aging storefront. "Mario can take care of you. I'll wait here."  
  
Bemused, Jack looked at the driver in the rearview mirror.   
  
"The transition back's a little tough," said the driver gently. "Best to start off with your best foot forward."  
  
Jack climbed back in 30 minutes later, self-consciously rubbing his jaw. "Better?" he asked hesitantly, his gaze flicking to the rear-view mirror.  
  
"Much," said the driver, giving Jack an approving glance. "Here, " he added, tossing a copy of the LA Times into the back. "Got this while you were in there. You might want to brush up." Jack stared at the paper then looked back up, bewildered.  
  
"Sometimes," the driver explained patiently, "people just want to help. That takes a little getting used to as well."  
  
Silence greeted his comment.  
  
"What are you waiting for? Quiz in 15 minutes."  
  
As the taxi pulled away from the curb, the driver heard a rustle as his client opened the paper, effectively blocking his face.  
  
"Thanks," said the gruff voice behind the paper after several moments.  
  
"Don't mention it," replied the driver. 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 (Quantico, VA) 

Assistant Director Kendall, FBI, poked unenthusiastically at his limp salad.  At HQ for a series of counter-terrorism briefings, he sat alone in the cavernous Quantico cafeteria.  A cacophony of clattering silverware, murmuring voices, and shuffling feet played in the background.

"Kendall, mind if I join you?"

Kendall looked up from his lunch to see the inquisitive face of Sam Binder.  "Go right ahead," he said neutrally, waving Sam to a seat next to him.  

"I heard that Jack Bristow got released today.  Didn't he work for you at one point?"

Kendall's fork paused midway between his plate and his mouth.  He had completely forgotten about Bristow. How long had it been?  A year?  "If your definition of 'worked for me' includes doing whatever the hell he wanted, when he wanted, then yes, he 'worked for me'," he replied testily.

"Not exactly a company man, huh?"

Kendall shrugged.  "A damn fine agent, but a pain in the ass to manage.  Figured the policies were for lesser mortals.  But you know, I was still pretty shocked - ," he stopped and looked around.  

"Yes?" prompted his companion.

"- pretty shocked," Kendall continued in a lower tone, "that they tossed him into solitary.  There was absolutely no evidence of conspiracy or wrongdoing."

"Well something must have gotten the NSC's knickers in a twist," his companion observed sagely.  "What happened?"

_"Dammit!  This is crazy.  If he really is working with Derevko, I can't think of a worse way of locating her," Kendall stormed angrily at the NSC representatives in his office._

_"Sloane advised us -,"_

_"Sloane!  Are you telling me that this is *Sloane's* idea?"_

_"Arvin Sloane has known Jack Bristow for 35 years.  And he advises that direct confrontation is the best way to get the information from him.  That Bristow will never let himself take the fall for Derevko again."_

_"Let me get this straight," Kendall ground out.  "Instead of tracing Bristow to Derevko, you're going to *ask* him where she is?"_

_"Yes," answered the NSC director smugly._

"I'm telling you, Sam," said Kendall aggrieved, "after one week with Jack Bristow I could have told you it was going to be a disaster.  But back then, Sloane's intel on terrorists was 100%.  The sun shone out of his ass."

"So what happened?"

_"Bristow."  _

_"Agent Bristow, please come down to Interview Room 3," ordered Kendall over the telephone. It was not an unusual request.  Room 3 was the secured room, equipped with audio and video recording equipment, and utilized for the more difficult interrogations.  Bristow had a special flair for those._

_"Now?" came the irritated voice._

_"Now."_

_Kendall watched as Jack flashed his ID at the door and stride in confidently.  Saw Jack swiftly assess the two visitors and the lack of suspects. "Director Kendall?"_

_"Agent Bristow, I'd like you to meet Director Robert Lindsey from the NSC and Eric Sherborne, Assistant Director in charge of Counter-Espionage.  They have a few questions for you," said Kendall tersely._

_"Here?" queried Jack, face impassive._

_"Here," replied Kendall grimly, telling Jack everything he needed to know.  The snick of the door lock behind Jack confirmed it._

_"Very well," said Jack, the model of cooperation, "what can I do for our colleagues at the NSC today?"_

_"You can explain this." An 8x10 glossy was slapped on the table. _

_ Jack casually studied the photo of a man and a woman sitting at a long worktable littered with maps and papers.  He looked up and shrugged.  "It looks like a photo of me with Irina Derevko." He flipped the photo over.  "No time or location markings.  Not an NSC photo.  How do you know it hasn't been tampered with?"_

_"It came to us from a source that has proven exceptionally reliable lately at apprehending terrorists," responded Sherborne arrogantly._

_Jack flashed a look at Kendall and caught the look of contempt on his face.  "Sloane," said Jack coolly.  He took the silence in response as affirmation._

_"Are you denying that you met with Derevko?" pressed Lindsey._

_"Of course not," said Jack patiently. "I'm sure Director Kendall told you that I've crossed paths with Derevko several times over the past year.  Unfortunately, those occasions didn't result in her recapture, but they are well-documented in my mission reports."_

_"Yes, remarkable how you're the only CIA operative that runs into her," said Lindsey snidely._

_Jack shrugged.  "Luck of the draw."_

_"Maybe unlucky," replied Sherborne smoothly.  "This contact was quite recent - August 20th - and your last filed mission report was in February."_

_"Wait a minute," interjected Kendall.  "That was *five weeks* ago.  You've known all this time and haven't said anything?"_

_"The photo was only provided by our source this morning."_

_"This morning?" Jack repeated, stunned.  Kendall looked over at Jack curiously.  Why had that piece of information been so important?  _

"Did you ever figure out why the timing was so important?"

"No.  And knowing Bristow, we probably never will.  But his whole attitude changed at that point.  Like all of a sudden he was taking it very, very seriously."

_"Very well," said Jack in clipped tones.  "A full report of this contact is on my computer, waiting to be filed.  I'll get it for you now," he offered, starting to rise._

_"Like hell.  You're not going anywhere," snapped Sherborne._

_Jack rolled his eyes.  "Fine," he said evenly.  "Download it yourself.  The file name is D820, the password is," he paused, thinking, "'ts3-97gt47/n-14%'."_

_Sherborne stood up and whispered to the guard, then sat back down again. The 4 men in the room stared at each other in uncomfortable silence.   Kendall glanced over at Jack, who was looking relaxed.  Relaxed?  Kendall replayed the conversation in his head.  "Oh sh*t!" he groaned, jumping up and running to the door.  _

"Unusual password," remarked Sam with a sideways glance.

 "Yeah, I know, I missed it," said Kendall with disgust.  "Afterwards we were able to verify that a transmission had been sent from his computer at the time the agent typed in the password.  Some kind of code."

_"Here you are, Director Kendall." An agent met Kendall at the door and pushed 6 pages of computer printout into his hands.  "It worked just like Bristow said."_

_Kendall glanced at Jack, who returned his look blandly.  "I'll bet," muttered Kendall.  He could have sworn he saw a triumphant gleam in Bristow's eye.  He quickly scanned the pages and looked up, startled.  "Derevko is *Amber*?"_

_"What the hell is "Amber"?" snarled Lindsey._

_"Amber is an informant that Bristow has been using that has provided some very high quality intelligence for us over the past few months," replied Kendall, his face flushed.  "Obviously I had no idea it was Derevko."_

_"It's standard tradecraft to disguise your source," said Jack calmly.  _

_Kendall's brows snapped together and he opened his mouth for an angry reply, but was cut off._

_"Tell me, Agent Bristow," interjected Lindsey, leering, "what else passes for standard tradecraft in this operation?"  He slapped down a second photo of Jack and Irina, apparently from the same surveillance camera sometime later.  Both on top of the table, their joint activity was unmistakable.  It was, thought Kendall to himself, pretty impressive._

"You mean he had been screwing the CIA's #6 most wanted terrorist all that time?"

Kendall shrugged.  "Their relationship was always pretty complicated.  He had tried to send her to the chair a couple of years earlier.  They say that love and hate are two sides of the same coin.  The coin just flips a lot with the Bristows."  

_"Conspiracy.  Treason.  You're facing some pretty serious charges here, Bristow.  She must be pretty incredible in bed for you to sell out your country."_

_Jack's face whitened.  Kendall had no doubt that Jack was mentally calculating the distance between himself and Lindsey. And had no doubt about the outcome._

_"You have proof for those charges?" Kendall interjected, torn between his fury with Jack's insubordination and his irritation with Lindsey's approach. _

_"I'm sure we'll get it eventually," said Lindsey unconcernedly.  "But if you help us capture Derevko, Bristow, I'll make sure the judge is lenient."_

_"F*ck you."  Jack had spoken for the first time.  "You have absolutely. no. proof.  I did not, would not, betray my country.  Your logic is faulty, your accusations baseless."_

_Lindsey leaned into Jack's face.  Kendall winced.  "You don't seem to understand, Bristow.  You've been f*cking a wanted terrorist - your career's over.  If you don't help me find Derevko I'll charge you with obstruction of justice now, and I'll nail you for treason later."_

_"You can't," said Jack flatly_

_"I can't what?" sneered Lindsey._

_"Can't charge me with obstruction of justice."  Jack's eyes glittered coldly._

_"I can if you refuse to tell me where to find Derevko."_

_"No.  A husband can not be compelled to testify against his. . . .wife."_

_"She's your ex-wife!" snapped Lindsey._

_"Do your research next time," said Jack with disdain._

"You're *kidding* me.  He was still married to her 20 years later?"

"Yeah.  Gives a whole new meaning to 'for better, for worse', doesn't it?"

_Lindsey jumped up and started pacing.  "You think you're pretty goddamn smart, don't you?"_

_"If we're done here, I have work to do," said Jack coldly.  _

_Lindsey stopped pacing and smiled.  "We're not done Agent Bristow.  Not even close."  He gestured at the guards._

_"What am I being charged with?" Jack had demanded, incredulous, as the guards had approached him with handcuffs._

_"Resisting authority."_

_"Resisting authority?  Since when was 'resisting authority' an arrestable offense?" He jumped to his feet, furious now._

_"We're not arresting you.  We're *detaining* you.  Welcome to the war on terror," Lindsey smirked._

_"You're bluffing."_

_"This is your last chance.  We've got a cell that's going to be filled.  It's hers. . . or yours."_

_"Go to hell," Jack spat._

_"Jack."  Jack looked up at Kendall as the guards were putting on the handcuffs.  "Jack, she's not worth it."_

_Jack's face stiffened as the cuffs were attached, then relaxed.  "Oh, yes *she* is," he said softly._

"So he went to prison rather than set up Derevko?" Kendall's companion asked curiously.  "Even after what she did to him last time?"

Kendall grimaced.  "Hard to believe, isn't it?  But the way they handled it, it was a foregone conclusion.  It was almost as if they wanted him in prison.  Press Bristow's buttons the wrong way, and he can be one stubborn sonovabitch.  Runs in the family," he said reflectively.

"So why do you think they let him out?  His daughter just reappeared a week ago - you think the NSC's getting soft?"

Kendall thought for a moment, then barked with laughter.  "Oh, I'm sure the two incidents are related," he said, smothering a grin.  "Poor Lindsey."

"Poor Lindsey?  What about Bristow?  He's been in solitary for more than a year."

Kendall shook his head briskly.  "Don't worry about Bristow.  He's the toughest guy I know.  Nothing touches him."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 

Jack let the door swing shut behind him and surveyed his apartment.  Maria, he noticed, had been visiting regularly. Neat stacks of junk mail stood on his breakfast table, organized by month, mute testimony to the passage of time.  Bills and other mail would have been passed on to his lawyer, he knew.

Grimly he observed that she had done a competent job at putting his belongings back in some semblance of order after what he was sure had been a thorough search by the NSC.  For that he could be grateful.  It would probably, though, take several weekends before he had rooted out all the bugs they had placed.

He headed to his bedroom, eyes lingering longingly on the soft bed.  Tempting.  Very tempting.  He had barely slept for the past seven days, since they had first told him Sydney had returned.  Firmly he turned his back.  He planned to shower then head straight in to work.  He'd be damned if he'd let the NSC think they'd had any impact on him.  

As he turned his gaze settled on a picture of Sydney on his dresser.  Picking it up for a moment, his heart swelled.  She was so. . . beautiful, he thought to himself.  

_Jack sat patiently at the interview table.  His arms and legs were shackled, as always, during his interrogations.  Not that he was likely to escape from a maximum-security prison.  No, just to establish who was in control.  _

_"Ah, Bristow, you're here," remarked Sherborne, striding into the room.  Jack didn't respond.  Where else would he have been while Sherborne drank his coffee for the past 30 minutes?  But time was something Jack had a lot of.  He shifted his legs in a vain attempt to get comfortable.  Sherborne came infrequently, usually leaving the interrogation to lower level agents.  It was seldom good news when he came in person._

_"I've brought you something," said Sherborne.  Jack noted the gleeful look in his eyes with irritation.  Sherborne whipped out a chocolate cupcake from behind his back and, with a flourish, lit the single candle and placed it on the table in front of Jack.  "Your one-year anniversary, Jack.  Blow out the candle and make a wish," he taunted._

_I wish I had some C4 and a short fuse, thought Jack to himself.  He adopted a bored expression.  "Make sure you get some help next year when it's more than one candle. The math gets kind of complicated," he said solicitously._

_The NSC agent's eyes sparked with anger, but he recovered quickly.  "Ooooh, good one, Jack.  Keep polishing that standup act.  Never know when you might get an audience again."  He scooped up the cupcake and tossed it into the trash.  Jack watched it go regretfully.  He'd always been partial to chocolate frosting._

_"How about a gift instead, Jack?"_

_Jack continued to look bored.  A gift.  Terrific, he thought sarcastically._

_"Come on, Jack.  What do you wish for - more than anything?"_

_Jack gazed at him in disdain._

_"Would it be. . . your daughter?"_

_Jack's hands clenched together under the table.  B*stard._

_"No answer?  Strange.  Your file indicates you'd do anything - and I mean anything - for your daughter."_

_"She's dead," replied Jack without inflection.  God, what did they know?  "I can't do anything for her."_

_"And if I were to tell you.that she's not dead?"_

_"I'd tell you that we had DNA evidence to declare her death.  So I'll believe it when I see her."_

_"Then you wouldn't be interested in a picture?"_

_Blood began pounding in Jack's ears.  He shrugged carelessly.  "It's my anniversary.  Why not?"_

_Sherborne dropped a snapshot onto the table.  Sydney, sitting up in a hospital bed, chatting with Weiss.  Jack stared at it for a long moment, scarcely breathing.  She was so.beautiful, he thought to himself.  He could have wept. _

_"Well?" the agent prompted._

_"Weiss has lost weight," observed Jack in a thoughtful tone._

_Sherborne snatched the picture back off the table in annoyance.  "Well, smart guy, that's the closest you're going to get to Sydney for a very long time.  Unless, of course, you'd like to cough up Derevko."_

_"I've told you a thousand times.  I don't have any idea where she is," said Jack in a weary voice._

_"Too bad.  There's no one left at the CIA to watch Sydney's back when she goes on her next mission.  You *did* do that before, didn't you Jack?  Double checked all the mission specs, put backups in place?"_

_"Sydney's perfectly capable of taking care of herself," said Jack, controlling his rising fury with difficulty.  _

_"Oh, is she?" sneered Sherborne with a predatory gleam.  He reached over and pushed the button on the tape recorder on the table. _

_"I. want. my. Dad," came Sydney's distraught voice from the player._

Jack put down the picture frame with a snap and wheeled toward the bathroom to turn on the water.  He needed a hot shower.  He felt. . . dirty.

_IwantmyDadIwantmyDadIwantmyDad.  _Stop it, Jack pleaded. It's over.  Rapidly he stripped off his clothes and tossed them in the laundry hamper.  Stepping into the shower, he let the hot water run down his back.

_IwantmyDadIwantmyDadIwantmyDad. _ Jack shuddered as the echo filled his head, unable to halt the memories that flooded back.  Arrested at home, shortly after Laura's funeral, Sydney watching in horror. "I want my Dad!" she'd screamed as they'd led him away.  His phone call home, four months into interrogation, arbitrarily cut off after 60 seconds.  "I want my Dad!" she'd wailed as they pulled the phone out of his hands.

_"I. want. my. Dad,"_

_Session over, Jack stumbled back to his cell, dazed.  Sydney was back, and she needed him.  More than she knew.  And Irina would not be able to protect her.  All he had to do was. give up Irina.  Sign her death warrant.  _

_He huddled on the concrete slab that served as his bed, using his blanket to temporarily shield him from the omnipresent surveillance of the cameras.  All of the defenses he had carefully constructed over the past year had just crumbled to dust.  For, in reality, his decision up to that point had been straightforward.  He was protecting Irina so that she could protect Sydney.  _

_A business decision.  Defensible with cool logic.  Impervious to any interrogation ploy the NSC had attempted during his imprisonment._

_But now?  When Sydney's and Irina's interests were no longer aligned?  And he had to choose?  Jack shivered under the thin blanket._

Jack shivered uncontrollably under the hot water, leaning against the wall for support.

_"Bristow!"  There was a pounding on Jack's cell door.  "Get that blanket off your damned face.  You know the rules."  _

_Focus, Bristow.  Sydney's strong.  She can do this without you.  With a superhuman effort, Jack controlled his features and lowered the blanket, feeling naked in front of the cameras.  Knowing that Sherborne would be watching for any hint, any crack._

_'Be strong, Sydney,' he whispered as the hours ticked away.  'It was only a business arrangement,' a voice chanted in his head._

_'Be strong, Sydney,' he whispered as he forced down the food.  Failure to eat would be a dead giveaway.  'They'll find out Sydney's a murderer,' the voice taunted._

_'Be strong, Sydney,' he whispered as he tossed sleepless on his bed.  'Irina doesn't love you.  She never loved you,' the voice mocked_

_'Be strong, Sydney,' he whispered as the days blurred.  'And if you lose Sydney again?' the voice screamed._

Jack's whole body began to shake, and he sank to the floor of the shower, head in his hands.  Knowing he had been only days away from whispering

_"Tell Sherborne. . . . I'm ready to talk."_

He heard the sound of sobs echoing through the room.  It was some time before he realized they were his.  


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7  
  
A knock at the door to her study interrupted her thoughts. She glanced up in irritation. "Pardon, Madame. You asked to be notified immediately if there was any news."  
  
"News?"  
  
"A man matching Jack Bristow's description walked out of the San Carlos Federal Penitentiary 2 hours ago."  
  
Irina's hands twisted together in her lap, but when she looked up her features were calm. "Very well, then. We must pack, and quickly. He knows of this location."  
  
Her major domo nodded and backed out the door. They would be ready to leave in 30 minutes.  
  
Irina watched the door close behind him and lowered her head to her hands. Angrily she brushed away an errant tear.   
  
He was safe. She would not see him again.   
  
The passage of time would once more be her trusted ally. Time to move on. Time to forget.  
  
It was over.  
  
*  
  
"...a 3:30 meeting with Foreign Minister Michel of Belgium, a 4:15 conference call with the R&D heads of Merck, Bayer, and Amgen, a..." Arvin Sloane's attention drifted as his administrative assistant reviewed the afternoon's schedule. It had been four days since Sydney had come to visit him, he thought impatiently; surely, by now...  
  
"Mr. Sloane?" came through his intercom.  
  
"Yes, Arlena?"  
  
"Director Lindsey on line 2, sir."  
  
Sloane waved his hand towards his assistant in dismissal and picked up the phone with a wrinkle of distaste. "Robert," purred Sloane. "What can I do for you today?"  
  
"Just a courtesy call, Arvin," came Lindsey's arrogant voice through the receiver. "After a careful review, I've decided to release Jack Bristow. Waste of resources, frankly. I think you and I underestimated just how stubborn he could be." Sloane smirked. "And much as I'd like to let him rot in prison forever, I'm not unsympathetic to his daughter's situation."  
  
"That's very generous of you, Robert."  
  
"We'll keep him on a tight leash, though. If he contacts Derevko, we'll know it."  
  
"Oh?" replied Sloane, entertained despite himself.   
  
"Bristow won't suspect a thing."   
  
"Keep me updated on your, uh progress," replied Sloane, rolling his eyes as he hung up. It appeared that Sydney had been successful. Not that he had doubted it - Sydney had extorted much better men than Robert Lindsey.  
  
So, Jack Bristow was free. There was something oddly satisfying about orchestrating his release. Since he had orchestrated his capture. Sloane rubbed his hands together. He was looking forward to seeing Jack again.  
  
Jack would be able to succeed where Sloane's vast resources had failed. He would flush Irina Derevko out of hiding. Sloane's lips tightened for a moment as he contemplated the damage she had caused him over the past 3 months. No matter, he reminded himself. With Jack's help he'd be able to fix that problem permanently.  
  
It was just beginning. 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 

Jack sat in the reception area of the Joint Task Force building, freshly showered and changed.  He had managed to find a suit in the back of his closet that still fit him; the rest he'd have to take to a tailor.  

His mind wandered back cautiously to the episode in the shower.  Shock, he told himself firmly.  Just a delayed reaction, exacerbated by lack of sleep.  It meant nothing, and he was fine now.  He straightened his tie, his expression studiedly casual, although inwardly he seethed.  He glanced once more at the clock.  Forty-five minutes.

"They're ready to see you now, Agent Bristow."  The receptionist, who Jack did not recognize, waved to a security guard.

"I can find my way there," Jack interjected.

"My instructions were that you were to be escorted," replied the receptionist neutrally.  Jack gritted his teeth and nodded.  Wordlessly he followed the guard to the Director's office.

"Director . . . Dixon?" asked Jack as he entered the office, a hint of surprise in his voice.  

Dixon looked up from his desk.  "Agent Bristow," he said coolly, indicating a chair in front of his desk.  As he gestured, his hand flipped up, then down.  Without any sign of recognition, Jack took a seat.  'Play along' had been Dixon's field signal.  Jack's back stiffened as he noticed that they were not alone.  Lindsey leaned proprietarily against the wall, smirking.

"You requested to see me?" said Jack formally, adapting rapidly.

"Yes."  Jack sat unflinching under Dixon's silent scrutiny. "The NSC has authorized your release from prison as a compassionate gesture to your daughter.  Your persistent failure to cooperate with their investigation has been noted on your record."

Jack nodded curtly and waited.

"As you were never formally charged, you are still employed by the CIA.  There are, however, ongoing concerns about your. . . reliability.  As a result, I have been authorized to offer you an early retirement package that I'm sure you will find generous."

"I'm being *offered* this package?" asked Jack guardedly.

"Yes.  You can't be forced to accept it," replied Dixon, giving Jack a significant look.

"And my alternatives are?"

"If you remain with the CIA," interrupted Lindsey nastily, "I'll do everything in my power to make your life miserable."

"If you don't mind, Director Lindsey," ground out Dixon.  "If you choose to remain with the CIA, the NSC has insisted on several conditions."

"And they are?" asked Jack with foreboding.

"First, you need to pass a psych profile to regain your security clearance."

Jack's eyes flashed angrily, but his only reply was, "And?"

"Second, you need to requalify for your field rating."  

"I need to what?  Requalify as a field agent?  After 35 years?" asked Jack incredulously, unable to restrain himself.

"Marksmanship.  Hand-to-hand combat.  Ordnance," enumerated Lindsey helpfully.  "It *has* been more than a year, you know.  Wouldn't want to endanger the other CIA operatives," he finished sanctimoniously.

"I know what's required," said Jack, barely restraining his temper.  "I trained all but two of the evaluators."  He turned towards Dixon.  "What else?" he asked, jaw clenched.

Dixon met his gaze levelly.  "Finally, any field missions to which you are assigned require preapproval by the NSC.  You won't be able to leave the country without their signoff."

"I see," said Jack slowly.  "So those are my choices?"  Dixon nodded with a hint of expectation in his eyes.  Lindsey watched him complacently.

"I'm staying," said Jack flatly.

Lindsey stared at him open-mouthed, then slammed his hand against the wall and stood upright, face flushed.  "Goddammit, you lying, traitorous, sonovab*tch.  How stupid are you?  The CIA might take you back but. . . ," his voice trailed off as Jack rose to his full height and took a menacing step in his direction.

"Thank you, Director Lindsey for your assistance this morning," said Dixon rapidly.  "I'm sure you have a number of important appointments that you need to attend to.  Would you like me to find someone to escort you out?" he added, flicking a glance at Jack.

"That won't be necessary," said Lindsey, stalking to the door.  He turned back towards Jack.  "Your ass is mine, Bristow," he said, as his parting shot.  "Kiss that pension goodbye."

Jack's lip curled.  How quaint.  Lindsey actually thought that he was going to retire on his government pension.  Of course, he thought to himself reminiscently, so had Irina.

_Moodily Jack stared at the papers in front of him.  All this effort, he thought bitterly to himself, to find out how his daughter had died.  To find. . . closure._

_"Jack?" asked Irina tentatively._

_Jack had looked up in surprise.  Tentative was not an adjective he normally associated with Irina Derevko._

_"This plan of yours," Irina swept her hand across the table at the maps and scraps of paper, "won't be cheap.  $800,000 at least."_

_Jack had scanned the table, quickly doing the math in his head.  "At least," he agreed, wondering where she was heading._

_Irina shifted uncomfortably, knowing that she was entering dangerous territory. "I know you're not wild about the sources of my income, but I could have the amount wired to you tomorrow.  In the Caymans, so it wouldn't be traceable."_

_"That won't be necessary," replied Jack offhandedly, returning to studying the map in front of him.  _

_"Won't be necessary?" asked Irina, puzzled.  "I'm not sure what the CIA's paying these days in salary, Jack, but. . . ," her voice trailed off as she saw the small smile playing about his lips.  "Jack?" she asked dangerously._

_"Hmmm?"_

_"How much?"_

_"How much, what?" he asked nonchalantly._

_"How much did you skim?" she asked through clenched teeth.  _

_"$20 million, plus or minus."_

_"$20 million," Irina repeated, eyes widening. " Twenty. Million. Dollars."  Her hand reached out to grasp the closest heavy object and encircled a ceramic figurine, which hurtled towards Jack's head.  It crashed harmlessly against the wall as Jack, anticipating her move, jerked out of the way just in time. "You. B*stard." she spit out.  "You sanctimonious, hypocritical b*stard."_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"*I'm* the criminal?"_

_"I was maintaining my cover," said Jack with dignity.  "It's what any self-respecting arms dealer would do."  Mood lightening, his eyes twinkled appreciatively.  Face flushed, chest heaving.  God, she was beautiful when she was angry._

The smile playing around Jack's lips was not the reaction Lindsey had expected, and he slammed the door behind him.

As the door closed, Jack looked over at Dixon, eyebrow cocked inquiringly.  Dixon's face relaxed.  "Sorry about the hardass routine, Jack, but the NSC's breathing down our neck.  Welcome back."

"Yeah, nice welcome," sighed Jack.  "I gather congratulations are in order?"  

Dixon's amused glance swept his desk and office.  "Right.  I'm just trying to outlast your record in this job."

Jack rolled his eyes.  "Won't be difficult."  He shot Dixon an appraising look.  "What's the real reason I was released?" Jack asked, tensing for news about Irina.

"Sydney."  Dixon grinned.  "She grabbed the NSC by the - well, let's just say that she successfully convinced Lindsey that it was in his interest to free you.  And she did it in classic Sydney fashion.  A bit impetuous, your daughter."

"You've noticed?" drawled Jack, hiding his relief.  "Where is she, by the way?"

"In the bullpen.  As far as I know, she doesn't know you're out yet.  Lindsey wanted as little fanfare as possible about the actual timing of your release.  He was hoping it might take a while before you recovered and made it into work."  Dixon shot a sympathetic look at Jack, noting his pallor and weight loss.  "Not the first time he's underestimated you."

"Hopefully not the last," said Jack reflectively.  


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 

Jack paused at the entrance to the Ops Center bullpen, suddenly reticent. The last time he had seen his colleagues, he'd been escorted out in handcuffs, choked with fury.   

_Perp walked out of the Ops Center, unable to help Sydney.  What an idiot.  Jack stared unseeingly at the opposite wall of the prison van, hands cuffed together, struggling to recover his equilibrium.  Even with years of practice at compartmentalization, he was having difficulty focusing._

_Was it only 18 hours ago, he wondered?  When he had wept in relief and joy at the sight of his daughter, alive, on the video from Lazarey's office?  He had almost worn out the replay button.  That she had been murdering a Russian diplomat, in cold blood, had only penetrated his consciousness some time later.  Because, after all, alive and in trouble was infinitely better than dead._

_He would find her.  He would protect her.  And he would have a second chance, one that he would not waste.  Because regrets, he had found, could last a lifetime._

_Filled with hope, he had floated into the Jt Ops building the next morning, hugging his secret close.  He would pull everything the CIA had on Lazarey then contact Irina.  Together they'd find her._

_Just another example of what hope could do, he reminded himself darkly, scanning the dingy interior of the van.  He'd walked into a trap and been too distracted to judge its seriousness until it was too late.  And misplayed it.  For the love of god, why had he openly defied Lindsey?  The smart strategy would have been to string him along and buy time.  But, thought Jack bitterly as he recalled the second photo, Lindsey had pushed all his buttons. A wave of rage swept him. Not Lindsey.  Sloane.  Sloane had outplayed him._

_It was up to Irina now.  Jack only had one move left – to protect Irina so that she could protect Sydney.  He swallowed, knowing what that would entail. Prison.  And trust.  Neither would be easy.  But for a second chance with Sydney, he would have sold his soul._

You got the second chance, he reminded himself.  Don't blow it this time.  He squared his shoulders and entered the bullpen.  The hush that fell over the room was daunting, but no sign of his discomfort showed on his face. His eyes swiveled around the room until he found the face that he was looking for.  Sydney.  

Sydney looked up and with widened eyes, saw her father walking towards her.  She rushed towards him and put her arms around him, hugging him.  Overwhelmed, Jack hugged her back, eyes closed, savoring the moment.  

"Thank you," Jack whispered, touching her hair and face tenderly.

The stunned silence was, to Jack's horror, broken by clapping.  As the wave of applause swept the room.  Jack's ears reddened, but he did not release his daughter.  Second chance, he reminded himself resolutely.  The clapping broke off and people began returning to their work, laughing and chatting.  

Jack took a step back and looked at Sydney.  "You look so - ,"

"I know," she said, smiling through the tears in her eyes, "beautiful.  What a typical Dad you are."  She caught herself and wrinkled her nose.  "Well. . . maybe not typical, exactly. . . ," she amended, grinning.  

Jack leaned in closer, saying in an low, urgent voice, "There's something I need to show you... not here." Sydney nodded imperceptibly.  "Are you free for dinner?" he asked in a normal tone.

"Of course," Sydney responded easily.  "Where would you like to go?"

"I was hoping you'd come to my apartment."

Sydney shot a sharp glance at him.  Not a restaurant. She wondered what he was planning to show her.  "What are you serving?" she asked, playing along.

Jack looked abashed.  "I haven't planned that far ahead.  I don't have any food at home. . . I thought maybe I'd just order in Chinese."

Sydney rolled her eyes.  "Why don't I go shopping for you?  I'll cook for us tonight," said Sydney firmly.  Honestly.  In prison for a year and the first thing he was planning to eat was takeout Chinese.

**

Sydney kicked open the door to Jack's apartment with one foot, loaded down with groceries.  "Dad?  You here?"  She peered into the semidarkness of the living room and saw him sitting motionless on the couch.

"Dad?"

Jack looked up, startled.  "Oh, hi, sweetheart.  Here, let me help you with those."

"Are you okay, Dad?"  Sydney examined her father closely.  Lines of exhaustion were evident on his face.

"I'll be fine," he said with a tired smile.  "After 12 months of silence, the Ops Center was a bit of an overload today.  Last time - ," he hesitated.

"Last time, what, Dad?" prompted Sydney, quietly.

"It took me a couple of weeks last time to adjust back," he admitted slowly.  "But what did you bring?"

Sydney allowed him to change the subject and bustled into the kitchen.  Jack growled appreciatively as she unpacked steaks, salad, bread, and a bottle of Merlot.  Sydney shot a critical look at her father.  "You've lost weight.  Didn't they feed you?"

"And here I thought I was looking svelte," he replied lightly, repressing the image of the unrecognizable hash he had been served each meal.

"Hmpf," Sydney replied skeptically.  She turned her efforts to finding a vase for the flowers she had bought.  "I'm sorry I wasn't here when you came home this morning, Dad.  Lindsey refused to say exactly when you'd be released."

"That's okay, sweetheart," replied Jack, touched.  "I. . . needed some time to myself, anyway."

Odd, thought Sydney to herself.  He needed some time to himself after a year in solitary? She shrugged and turned back to the food and for a while they worked in companionable silence, Sydney cooking, Jack setting the table and pouring the wine.

"Where did you learn to cook like this?" Jack said in admiration as Sydney expertly flipped the steaks.  "When you left for college the most you could manage was scrambled eggs."

Sydney turned with a smile.  "Oh, living with Francie - ," she halted, paralyzed.  _IwantmydadIwantmydadIwantmydad. _"Dad?" she said tremulously, beginning to shake.

Jack rapidly put down his wine and wrapped his arms around her tightly.  "Go ahead," he said gently.  "Finish the sentence."

"Living with Francie," Sydney said in a quavering voice, "would m-make anyone a good c-cook.  Oh Dad," she sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder.  "She's d-dead, isn't she?"  

"Yes," said Jack simply, patting her hair.  "But the memories are important, Sydney.  Her gift to you.  Don't lose them too."

"Danny.  Francie.  Will," she said in a choked voice.  "All because of me."

"No," said Jack firmly.  

"But they're dead, or their lives are ruined, because they were my friends," Sydney said stubbornly.

"Or because you were my daughter," said Jack somberly.

Sydney pulled back, tears streaking her face.  "That's not right," she said heatedly.

Jack regarded her silently, waiting.

"Oh," she said in belated understanding.

Jack nodded.  "Not because of either of us.  Because of Sloane.  Stay focused, Sydney."  

Hugging her father tightly, Sydney said in a muffled voice, "I'm so glad you're here.  I'm not sure I could do this without you – you're the only one I can trust."

"I'm glad I'm here, too," he said soothingly, glorying in this new closeness with his daughter.  "What exactly did you do to get me out?"

Sydney pushed back, wiping the tears from her face.  "Unh-uh.  If I told you, you'd ground me," she said smiling.  "And don't try to interrogate me.  I've learned from the best."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 

"Dad, what was it like?  Solitary?"  Dinner finished, Jack and Sydney both sat at the table, relaxed.

Jack looked into his daughter's open and trusting eyes_.  IwantmyDadIwantmyDad IwantmyDad. _ Perhaps there were limits to this new closeness of theirs. "Nothing special, sweetheart.  No thumbscrews.  Boring, mostly."  Jack fixed a reassuring smile on his face.

"What did you do to pass the time?"

Jack shrugged easily.  "Slept.  Thought about you.  Played chess."

"Chess?  In solitary?" asked Sydney skeptically.

"There was another prisoner…," Jack's voice trailed off.  "I don't even know his name," he said reflectively.  "I called him 'The Abbe' in my mind.  We found a way to communicate."

"Codes through walls?" Sydney asked teasingly.

"Close enough," he replied, oddly reluctant to discuss it.  

Jack pushed back from the table, effectively ending the conversation, and moved to the corner of the room.  A box, clearly electronic in nature, sat on the floor with its lights flashing.  Jack flipped a switch and a low hum could be heard.  "That's better," he said to himself.  He looked up to see Sydney watching him curiously.  "Borrowed this from Marshall today.  Industrial strength bug killer.  Kills the video as well as the audio.  If you're ready, I've got something to show you."

Jack pulled out his laptop, and with a few keystrokes began downloading the video he had stored on an anonymous remote server as a routine safety precaution the year before.  He remembered the first time he had seen the video as if it were yesterday.  It had been an image seared onto his brain, the edges still clear as he clutched it close during his days in solitary.  Sydney sat down in the chair next to him, silently watching the progress of the download without comment.

"Almost a year after your apparent death, I was on an operation. One of the men I was tracking was this man."  Jack handed her a black and white photograph.  "Andrian Lazarey, a Russian diplomat."

"I've never seen him before, Dad."  Sydney frowned at Jack's troubled look.  "What's the matter?  Why were you following him?"

"Lazarey led the Project Christmas research from the Russian side many years ago.  I was hoping to obtain more information on Allison Doren, on the assumption that if we found her, we might find out more about what happened that night."  He hesitated for a moment, then pushed a button on his keyboard.  "Sydney, this tape was from a hidden camera that I placed."

Sydney watched as the tape began to play.  Lazarey got up from behind his desk to greet a woman with blond hair, then moved to shut the door behind her.  As the woman turned to watch him, her face was exposed.  "That's me," she gasped, shocked.

"This is how I knew you were alive," said Jack quietly.  "You. . . don't recall that man at all?"

"No. . . ," whispered Sydney, watching the tape as the blond woman slipped a knife out of her coat sleeve and slashed Lazarey's throat.

"No…," she moaned, turned her face into Jack's shoulder.  "He was unarmed, Dad.  I slit that man's throat."

"Your remorse is premature, Sydney. Without knowing the circumstances, you can't be sure you didn't have just cause."

"I know you don't want the CIA to see this tape to protect me, but maybe they should," said Sydney, pushing herself away from her father.

"Sydney, they'll detain you indefinitely. If they learn you murdered Lazarey, you won't be able to participate in finding out what happened to you over the last two years."

"I don't trust myself right now, Dad. Maybe the CIA shouldn't either."

"Well, I trust you. I'll keep looking into Lazarey. You deserve to get on with your life."

"Dad - ,"

"Sydney," said Jack resolutely, holding her close  "Trust me.  I'll tell you everything I learn.  Your mother may be helpful...assuming she's still alive.  You don't," he asked diffidently, "happen to remember seeing her at all over the past year, do you?"

Sydney shook her head vigorously.  "I don't remember a thing."

Jack gave a sigh.  "I haven't spoken to her, but we established a protocol for making contact. I'll try and reach her."

"Dad?" asked Sydney meditatively.

"Hmm?"

"You and mom. . .you worked together while I was gone?"

"Yes.  I felt I could trust her, given the circumstances.  We had something in common."

"My death," said Sydney lightly, but her brown eyes were huge.  "Did you. . . ,' she paused, choosing her words carefully, "work together closely?"

"Yes," he said evenly.

"Oh," she said, chewing her lower lip.  "I see."

"I doubt it," said Jack dryly.  "Sydney, it was a business relationship.  Both your mother and I understood that.  Our first objective was to find your killers.  Then, when I discovered you were alive, it was to find and protect you."

"So *that's* why you wouldn't tell them where to find Mom?"

Jack nodded.

"But you don't know what she actually did during that time?"

"No.  But I intend to give her the benefit of the doubt until I've talked to her."

Sydney stared at him openmouthed.

Jack read her expression and sighed.  "Sydney, I don't have a choice.  If I thought that I'd spent a year in solitary for nothing, I'd go crazy."

Sydney squeezed his arm in understanding, reserving judgment.  "So, will you be joining us tomorrow morning for the briefing?" she asked brightly.

Jack flushed.  "No," he said shortly.  "A welcome back gift from Lindsey.  I need a psych evaluation before I get my security clearance back.  No mission briefings for a while."

Sydney raised her eyebrows.

"It should be routine," said Jack wearily.  "But I've got to get that clearance if I'm going to be able to help figure out what happened to you."

"I'm sure there will be no problems," said Sydney bracingly. 

"And," Jack added reluctantly, "I need to requalify for my field rating as well. I'll be a little occupied for the next few days."

Sydney, who had been sipping her wine, choked.  "What?" she spluttered, outraged. 

"Lindsey's idea of entertainment."

"That. moron," Sydney ground out.  Jack smiled at her ferocity.  "Look Dad, why don't you relax while I go clean up?"  She stood and began moving towards the kitchen.  "I'd like the opportunity to break something," she muttered to herself.

Sydney walked out into the living room 15 minutes later to find her father fast asleep on the couch.  Smiling to herself, she swung his legs up and covered him with an afghan.  It was good to have him home.  After a moment's pause, she bent over and dropped a kiss on his forehead.  "'Night, Dad," she whispered, and turned out the lights.

****

A/N – "The Abbe" is a reference to the other prisoner with whom Dantes had contact in **The Count of Monte Cristo.**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11 

_The sun beat down mercilessly, the glare almost blinding him. Buried up to his neck in the soft sand, Jack struggled frantically but was unable to move.  He could hear the thunder of the waves behind him, and felt a cold chill on the back of his neck as a finger of one of the waves stretched up and touched him.  In front of him, Sloane conscientiously tamped down the last of the sand before standing up satisfied._

_"Don't. leave. me. here."  It came out as a plea, and Jack silently cursed himself for showing weakness.  _

_Sloane brushed the sand off his hands, and smiled smugly.  Raising his hand to shade his eyes, he studied the ocean. "Tide's coming in pretty fast," he said off-handedly.  A larger wave hit the back of Jack's head.   Sloane smirked as water dripped down Jack's face.  "The fun's in the anticipation, don't you think, Jack?  I mean, we both know how this will end.  We just don't know when, exactly."  With a manic laugh, Sloane turned on his heel and headed up the beach, out of sight._

_Jack desperately tried to jerk his body free from the weight of the sand, but it was no use.  She'll come, he told himself, swallowing his fear.  Larger waves crashed over his head and receded.  Jack shook his head to clear the water out of his eyes, trying to ignore the roar behind him as the waves inexorably marched closer and closer.  The high tide mark was a good 20 feet beyond him.  He would be covered in another couple of minutes.  Where was she?_

_A movement caught the corner of his eye, far down the beach.  A piece of paper?  A bird?  He craned his neck to see and was rewarded with a face full of water as another wave crashed on top of him.  Ominously, the wave did not recede.  The water level was now half way up his neck.  Stifling his panic, he continued to focus on the spot in the distance.  It was moving closer.  It was running.  It was_

_"Irina!" he yelled.  "Here!"_

_He coughed as he swallowed a mouthful of seawater.  Swiveling his head again, he could see she was running faster.  The water was up to his chin now – it would be close.  He tilted his head upwards, struggling to breathe.  He could no longer turn to watch her.  Would she come?  In time?_

Jack sat bolt upright on the sofa, covered in sweat, breath coming in ragged gasps.  His heart pounded painfully in his chest.  Where the hell was he?  He peered around in the darkness, trying to get oriented.  Not on a beach.  Not in a cell.  He was. . . home?  

Memory flooded back.  He *was* home, he thought in relief.  Why had he had that damned nightmare again?  He laughed shakily, wiping his hand across his forehead.  His subconscious must not have gotten the newsflash yet.  

He headed to the kitchen and poured a glass of scotch, tossing it back in one swallow.  Wouldn't Barnett have a field day interpreting that dream, he thought wryly.  After experiencing it every night for the last year, he could describe it in infinitesimal detail.  Although, of course he wouldn't.  

He made his way to the window and looked out into the dark of the night, shadowed by clouds that choked the moon.  Where was she? he wondered.  Would she come?

**

_"Jack, I'm here," she whispered._

_"Irina." Jack breathed her name out with a sigh and turned towards her.  "You came."_

_She lay her hand against his face and he closed his eyes for a moment, jaw working, as if overwhelmed by her touch.  Wordlessly, he gently turned her hand with his own and brushed her palm with his lips._

_"Are you. . . alright?"  The words were so inadequate.  She could see the shadows still in his eyes, the weariness from the struggle.  Rage welled up within her, and just as quickly faded away.  He did not need her rage now._

_"I will be," he said softly, pulling her into his arms and burying his face in her hair.  She felt him inhale deeply, as if he could breathe in her strength to revive his soul._

_And she trembled at the gift he was giving her. To let her see the man behind the curtain.  To let her share the loneliness, the deadening of the spirit, the humiliations of the past year.  For the greatest gift he had to give was…his trust._

_Taking him by the hand, she drew him to the bed.  "Tell me."_

Half a world away, Irina sat up with a stifled sob.  Tugging her wool blanket from her bed, she huddled by the window and watched as the dawn crept up the mountainside, wrestling with the fog that enshrouded her chalet.  How was he? she wondered.  And who would be there for him when she didn't come?


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12 

Jack heard a step behind him and stiffened in annoyance when he felt a hand on his shoulder.  "Bristow!  I heard you were here."

Relaxing as he recognized the voice, he carefully lowered his gun and turned away from his target.  Sean O'Malley, firearms instructor, was surveying him from head to toe, the eyes in his grizzled face twinkling.  "Heard I need to qualify you.  Want me to show you where the trigger is?" asked O'Malley solicitously.  

Jack smiled with affection and stuck out his hand.  "I wouldn't get too close.  My aim's not what it used to be," he retorted. "How's the leg?" O'Malley had often been Jack's backup earlier in his career, and had bailed him out of more tight situations than he could count.  When O'Malley's field career had been abruptly terminated in a minefield, Jack had helped him to get reassigned to the CIA's firing range.

"'Bout the same.  You been keeping yourself busy?"  Jack didn't miss the trace of concern in O'Malley's voice.  He knew that his time in solitary was a thinly veiled secret.  No doubt intentional by the NSC as a warning to anyone else that wanted to "resist authority".   

Jack shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. He trusted Sean with his life, but was unexpectedly hesitant about sharing the details of his time in solitary.  "All expenses-paid vacation, courtesy of Uncle Sam," he replied casually.  "Caught up on my reading, wrote my memoirs.  What's not to like?"

_Jack blinked.  What was that crawling up the wall of his cell?  He blinked again and it disappeared.  He wiped a shaky hand across his face.  Dammit, Bristow, pull yourself together.  He leapt off his bed in agitation, pacing the cell.  _

_Three weeks.  More or less.  Assuming that they were feeding him 3 meals a day.  He looked over at his tally on the wall, etched with the button from his shirt. He had had his first meal of the day some time ago.  That meant that exercise would be next.  Then the second meal, then the third meal.  Numbly he considered the hours stretching in front of him. No books, no pens, no paper.  Nothing except his own thoughts to occupy him.  Not a particularly heartening notion._

_"Bristow! Hands through the door!"_

_With relief, Jack put his hands through the door to be shackled.  Time for exercise.  A 30 foot by 8 foot run.  No other prisoners present, of course, but a welcome change of scenery.  He entered the run and stretched.  2 minutes of stretching.  20 minutes jogging.  8 minutes wind sprints.  Cool down back in his cell._

_Stretching done, Jack began a slow jog to the end of the run and back.  His brow wrinkled in concentration on the return.  He had seen something…different?  He looked more closely as he jogged back to the other end, this time a little faster.  Scratched in the concrete dust at the end, the phrase 'e4'.  Jack continued without pause, frowning.  Had that been there before?  He puzzled over the writing for the rest of the exercise period, and found it dominating his thoughts for the rest of the day.  A slow news day, he told himself cynically._

_The next day, he only stretched for a minute, then began his jog.  As he reached the end of the run his eyes scanned the ground.  'e4?' read the phrase.  Jack continued on without reaction, pondering, surreptitiously examining the camera angles.  Jog finished, he began his wind sprints, bending low as he reached each end of the run, touching the ground.  The 3rd lap he erased the phrase in the dust.  The 5th lap he wrote a small 'e' with his finger.  The 7th lap he wrote a '5'.  There he thought to himself, breathing hard.  He slowed to a walk, wiping the sweat out of his face, and followed the guard back to his cell._

_'f4'.  Jack's step faltered the following day as he made his first turn and jogged back.  He had been right – the code represented chess moves.  He concentrated, seeing the board in his mind's eye.  King's Gambit, he thought contentedly to himself.  Take it or not, he wondered?  By the time he started his wind sprints, he had decided.  When he left the exercise run,  'exf4' was scrawled in the dust._

O'Malley gave him a skeptical glance, but knew Jack too well to press him.  "You were gone for a while, weren't you?"

"About a year," replied Jack offhandedly.  

_Jack gave a grunt of disgust as he saw the Abbe's checkmate in the dust.  Damn.  He should have seen that coming.  After playing the Abbe for almost a year, Jack had a good sense for his strengths and weaknesses.  Whereas Jack was strategic, the Abbe was opportunistic.  Jack, conservative, the Abbe daring.  Jack losing, the Abbe winning, Jack reminded himself acidly. The Abbe was up now, 11 games to 10, with 8 draws.  Jack had not been concentrating well the past few days, not since Sydney had resurfaced.  You need to get your head back in the game, he told himself.  _

_The discovery of the codes in the dust had been a lifeline for Jack. The connection, however tenuous, with another intellect of comparable ability (probably a serial murderer, Jack had told himself in a moment of dark humor), had focused him.  After the first game they had played, when it swiftly became apparent that the competition would be formidable, he had proposed playing two games simultaneously. The Abbe had accepted.  _

_Two chessboards to keep memorized in his head.  Two moves per day during exercise.  Something to occupy his mind during the 23-1/2 hours until the next exercise session.  Weaknesses to probe.  Strategies to test.  And a daily reminder of the importance of playing for the long term._

_Jack bent low on his wind sprint, grateful for the temporary distraction from his worries about Sydney.  Time to start a new game. 'd4' he scratched in the dust.  Sprint to the end, and back.  And on the second game?  Sprint to the end, and back.  'Nd5+' he scratched.  Take that, he thought with satisfaction, deciding to meet the Abbe's attack with a counter-attack.  He sprinted back to the entrance, where the guard awaited him.  _

With a start, Jack realized he would never find out what the Abbe's next move would have been.

"Care to tell me why you need to be requalified?" O'Malley asked curiously, breaking into Jack's reflections.

Jack grimaced.  "No," he said baldly.

O'Malley snorted.  "Glad to see that the famous Bristow interpersonal skills remain intact. What're you going to qualify with?"

"9-mm." Jack gestured to the gun in front of him.

O'Malley limped backwards two steps.  "Whenever you're ready," O'Malley drawled, pointedly looking at his watch.

Jack didn't answer, just spun around and scooped up the gun in a smooth motion.  Without pause, he emptied the entire cartridge at the paper target at the end of the run.  Both men waited patiently as the pulley brought the target forward.  Silently Jack unclipped it and handed it to O'Malley.

"What a bloody waste of time," was O'Malley's only response, signing his name to the bottom.

*

Jack met his contact over lunch in a dark smoky bar in East LA.  

"You want me to *what*?" asked the contact for the second time.

Jack patiently explained the parameters of the op.  Timing and communications were critical.  

"I want an update each morning at 10am.  You'll be on standby for 30 minutes.  I'll relay your instructions to you on this phone," said Jack, sliding a phone across the table, "by 10:30am."

"And you want that code scratched into the dust," repeated the contact in disbelief.  He stared at the money Jack counted onto the table.  "Whatever you say, Mr. Bristow."

****

A/N:  Just for the record, this chess scene was written _before _Jack's game with Brill in Breaking Point.  An explanation of algebraic chess notation can be found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algebraic_chess_notation


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13  
  
"Jack Bristow. I'm here for a routine evaluation," he said shortly to the assistant. He had completed the psych profile that morning; a follow-up interview was all that was standing between him and his security clearance.  
  
"Dr. Barnett will be with you shortly." Jack felt a twinge of apprehension. Why did it have to be Barnett? Why couldn't it have been any one of the other perfectly competent but easy to bullsh*t psychiatrists the CIA employed?  
  
"You can go in now."  
  
Jack walked into the office and looked around. New picture on the wall. Same couch and low chair, for patients. Same high chair for her. He sighed.   
  
"It's good to see you again, Agent Bristow." Dr. Barnett flashed Jack a distracted smile and waved him towards the couch.   
  
"I won't take much of your time, Doctor. I'm just here for a routine - ,"  
  
"Spare me, Agent Bristow," she said sardonically. Barnett remained seated at her desk for a moment longer, studying a printout, then looked up. "Your psych profile," she said, waving her hand at the page as she stood up and made her way to her chair in front of Jack. "Congratulations. It was brilliant. Every answer within acceptable parameters."  
  
Jack watched her carefully. He had underestimated her twice before; he had a sneaking suspicion that he had done it again. He made a neutral sound.  
  
"Useless, of course. This is what happens when you train double agents to fake profiles," she said pointedly. "They can't restrain themselves from doing it to you as well. You've just earned yourself a longer interview."  
  
Jack's heart sank.  
  
"Perhaps we should start by having you tell me about your past year."  
  
"There's not much to tell," said Jack with an air of indifference. "The highlight reel would be less than 5 minutes. Arrested, interrogated, imprisoned, released."  
  
"That's a bit brief for a year of your life."  
  
"When you eliminate the 23-1/2 hours per day staring at the walls, there isn't much left."  
  
"And what did you think about, staring at those walls?"  
  
Jack's lips tightened briefly in annoyance. "Doctor? Is there something in particular you're fishing for? If so, could you just ask?"   
  
Barnett's eyes flashed. "Agent Bristow, your file shows that you're an expert in interrogation, at breaking prisoners down so that they become more cooperative. You must be aware that solitary confinement can have a devastating psychological impact. Many felons don't last a week. You survived for more than a year, then delivered a perfect profile."  
  
"I'm not a felon."   
  
"And I doubt that you're perfect," she snapped back as she peered through her glasses at his psych profile. "No hallucinations, no personality defects, no suppressed anger," she recited, running down the sheet in front of her. "No sleeping disorders, no signs of alienation, no nightmares, not even a hangnail. Remarkable," she finished acidly.   
  
"I-,"  
  
Barnett held up her hand. "Don't," she said wearily.   
  
Jack fell silent as Barnett studied him pensively for several moments. "My experience with you to date, Agent Bristow, suggests that you are capable of seeking help when you need it. And that attempts to provide help when you are resistant to it are fruitless. If, by some miracle, it occurs to you that you need assistance..."  
  
"I'll find help," Jack said, matching her gaze squarely.  
  
"Very well," said Barnett, pulling a form towards her and making a notation. Her eyes narrowed and she studied the form more closely. Jack felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck.  
  
Barnett looked up, her expression closed. "Were you aware, Agent Bristow, that Director Lindsey himself requested your evaluation?"  
  
Jack nodded, his face impassive.  
  
"Were you also aware that he specifically instructed that you be refused clearance if you failed to demonstrate proper respect for authority?"  
  
A muscle jumped in Jack's jaw. "No."   
  
"I need to tell you, Agent Bristow," said Dr. Barnett, thumbing through Jack's service folder, "that given our previous sessions, and your considerable record, no self-respecting therapist would clear you on that basis."   
  
"I see," said Jack grimly. His mouth was set in an angry line. He should have suspected. The whole process was rigged.  
  
"Fortunately for you, Agent Bristow, the CIA does not take guidance from lay personnel within the NSC on psychological profiles. And in my experience, there is no such thing as an old field agent who respects authority."   
  
"Old?" repeated Jack, wondering whether he had just been insulted.  
  
"Forgive me, Agent Bristow. Highly experienced," she corrected dryly.  
  
Jack looked at Barnett doubtfully. He had not suspected her of a sense of humor.  
  
"The ability to improvise in the field, to adjust to local conditions which have not been anticipated, to find alternative means to achieve a mission objective when the original plan has failed - this ability is central to a field agent's success. An agent too dependent on authority will inevitably fail while waiting for instructions. Or worse yet, follow instructions that are no longer appropriate."  
  
She looked up to see if Jack was following. "Most agents who respect authority too much eventually end up -," she hesitated.  
  
"Dead," supplied Jack helpfully.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"If you'd like, I can supply you with additional examples of failure to follow direction," suggested Jack in a deadpan tone.  
  
"I hardly think that will be necessary, Agent Bristow," said Barnett, her gaze flicking again to his service record.  
  
"Well, then," said Jack with relief, "it looks as though we're done, then." He made to rise.  
  
"Yes, we've made a good beginning," said Barnett neutrally. "That should be enough for today."   
  
Jack looked at her with dismay. "For today? What else could we possibly have to cover?"  
  
"Your wife."  
  
"My wife?" repeated Jack, his voice suddenly turning arctic. "Did it escape your notice that I just spent more than a year in prison due to my - reluctance - to discuss my wife?"  
  
"Agent Bristow, I can assure you I have no interest in locating your wife."  
  
"Then what, pray tell, do you plan to cover?" Jack said through clenched teeth.  
  
"I want you to tell me about your relationship with Irina Derevko."  
  
"What? Are you doing marriage counseling now?"  
  
"No, Agent Bristow," explained Barnett patiently. "I'm just trying to ascertain whether an agent who attempted to murder his wife and then, less than a year later, was working so closely with her that their relationship constituted a national security breach, has sufficient emotional stability to continue as a field operative with this agency." 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14  
  
"So, Dad, how'd your psych evaluation go?" Sydney asked curiously. Dressed in a t-shirt and gym shorts, she balanced easily on the balls of her feet in an abandoned warehouse that Jack had set up as an impromptu gym. Jack stood opposite her, clad in similar attire.  
  
"Great," said Jack sarcastically. "I have a follow-up with her later this week so that she can make sure I'm 'emotionally stable' enough to be in the field. She wants to better understand my relationship with your mother."  
  
"Don't we all," muttered Sydney to herself. She looked at her father uncertainly. "Are you sure this is a good idea, Dad?"   
  
  
  
"I've already explained," said her father patiently. "If I show up in the CIA gym in the condition I'm in, I may *never* get my field-rating back. I'm 55, you know. They're not going to be knocking themselves out to clear me. Just help me get back in shape. It's a little difficult to maintain reaction times and endurance in an 8x8 cell."  
  
Sydney eyed him carefully. "I'm not sure I can do this, Dad. What if I hurt you?"  
  
Jack waved his hand irritably. "I've got 80 pounds and 25 years of experience on you, Sydney. You're not going to hurt me."   
  
"Okay, Dad," she agreed reluctantly, "let's give it a try." Sydney and Jack circled the mat. Sydney feinted with one arm, then swung a kick at her father, which he easily blocked. "Good job," she called. She backed off and Jack charged at her, spinning and landing a punch to her ribs. "Nice one, Dad," she said encouragingly.  
  
Jack, on the other hand, looked thunderous. "Good job. Nice one, Dad," he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "Christ, Sydney, could you move any slower? Forget the whole thing," he said in disgust. "I guess it was too much to ask." He bent down and angrily snatched up his towel. "I just wish -," he stopped abruptly.  
  
"You wish what, Dad?" asked Sydney sharply, stung. "Tell me."  
  
"I just wish your mother was here," Jack snapped.  
  
"You *what*?  
  
Jack looked up at her slowly, his voice steady. "I wish your mother was here," he repeated. "She's enough of a professional to understand that the split-second I don't gain now could cost my life in the field. Could cost you *your* life in the field when I'm watching your back. She wouldn't be pulling her punches."  
  
"I'm not enough of a professional?" Sydney said in amazement, noticing with a start that her father's eyes were now taunting her. Her eyes sparkled dangerously. "Really?"  
  
"It's okay, sweetheart," said Jack patronizingly. "I'll call someone el - ," Jack crumpled to the floor as Sydney's foot connected with his jaw in a lightning-fast kick.  
  
"Dad?" asked Sydney, her anger swiftly replaced with concern as she bent over him. "Dad? Are you okay?"  
  
Jack opened his eyes and grinned, rubbing his jaw cautiously. "That was a little bit more what I had in mind."  
  
"You did that on purpose!" accused Sydney.  
  
"Did what?" asked her father innocently, as he viciously kicked her legs out from under her. Both combatants scrambled to their feet, and the workout began in earnest.  
  
An hour later, Jack's breathing was labored, he was nursing one arm, and sweat soaked his clothing. Sydney, he noted, looked fresh as a daisy. "Enough," he rasped. "I think you've pointed out enough shortcomings for one day."  
  
Sydney grinned and tossed her father his towel. "You've only yourself to thank, Dad," she said as they both collapsed onto the bleachers. She studied him curiously as he dried off. "What you said earlier - did you mean it? Do you wish Mom were here to do this? I don't remember the two of you ever working out together." Her face colored. "I mean..."  
  
Jack observed his daughter's discomfiture with amusement. "I choose not to answer the question about how much we worked out together," he said with dignity. "However, the answer to your question is no, I had no idea she was an expert in martial arts when we were married. I didn't really find out until Bangkok."  
  
Sydney nodded. "I read the mission report. So she's hell on wheels with a knife, huh?"  
  
"That report didn't begin to capture it. Knifework training starts early in the Russian system. For many, it remains their preferred weapon. She was...incredible," said Jack, shaking his head. "And to think, I used to worry about her when I went away on trips."   
  
"As I recall, your mission reports left out a number of details about Mom," Sydney teased gently. She wondered if her father was aware of the warmth in his voice when he spoke now of her mother. Business relationship, indeed, she smirked to herself.  
  
"My mission reports tend to focus on what people need to know, Sydney. There was a lot about those final missions with your mother that I didn't feel was relevant."  
  
"Such as how she got the passive transmitter?" Sydney asked, eyes twinkling.  
  
Jack stood up hastily, his face turning pink. "That's probably enough discussion about your mother for one day, Sydney," he said decisively. "I think I'll just go totter off now and lick my wounds. Will you be available tomorrow?"  
  
"Sure Dad," she smiled. "Unless Mom gets here first," she added sotto voce as Jack limped away. 


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15 

_Mozart_182:  Distinguished composer looking for music lover._

Jack shifted impatiently against the seat of his car, squinting at the screen in front of him.  The screen glowed in the dimness of the garage lighting.  What would he do if this didn't work?

_Handel_4me wants to chat privately._

She's there, he thought to himself with relief.

_Handel_4me:  Couldn't believe it when I saw your ad in the London Globe._

Jack smiled slightly.  The wording of the personal ad was…unusual.  Easy to remember.  He hoped she didn't expect him to deliver on that particular promise.  

_Mozart_182: Glad you're alive._

_Handel_4me: You should have known better_.

A snort reverberated inside the car.

_Mozart_182:  Our daughter is safe._

_Handel_4me:  My God.  How is she?_

_Mozart_182: Recovering, though she doesn't remember the last two years.  I need your help getting background on a man named Andrian Lazarey._

_Handel_4me:  Will upload all intel to our FTP dropsite_.  

_Handel_4me: Miss you._

Sucking in his breath, Jack's hands hovered indecisively over the keyboard for a moment.

_Mozart_182:  Miss you too. _

_Mozart_182: When can we meet?_

Jack bit his lip.  Did that sound too eager?

_Handel_4me: A meeting is not possible._

"Not possible?" repeated Jack out loud, studying her response.  What the hell did that mean?  Not possible now?  Or ever?  He moved to type again, only to read:

_Handel_4me has left the chatroom._

He closed his laptop with a snap and sat in the darkness, brooding.

Irina stared at her hands in disbelief.  How could they have betrayed her?  "Miss you?"  What kind of. . .pathetic. . .response was that?  She needed to be pushing him away, not trying to pull him closer.  Distance…and time.  Her formula from 24 years ago.  It worked great then, didn't it, said a sarcastic inner voice.

Involuntarily she gazed at the computer screen.  WHEN CAN WE MEET?  So he didn't know yet.  Or he had found out, and was setting her up.  She gave herself a mental shake and closed the lid.  It didn't matter. 

A meeting was not possible.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: The chess moves used in this fic come from two famous games – The Immortal Game (Anderssen v Kieseritzky, London, 1851) and The Immortal Zugzwang Game (Samisch v Nimzowitsch, Copenhagen, 1923).  They were chosen for a reason, but if chess is not your thing, don't worry.  Any linkages of chess to the plot will be obvious.

*******************************

**Chapter 16**

Jack's mood had not noticeably improved by the next morning.  He had puzzled over Irina's response for most of the night.  He felt vaguely unsettled; as if having opened a brightly colored present, he had found an empty box inside.  She missed him.  As a colleague?  A friend?  A lover?  But not enough, apparently, to meet with him again.

How would he find out what had happened to Sydney?  Or what Irina had been doing the past year?  And how would he -

His phone rang and he answered it with a snarl of frustration.  "Bristow." 

"Yes, Mr. Bristow?  I've heard from the guard at San Carlos.  The codes were there just as you said.  Two of them.  'Nf6' and 'Qxb2'."  The voice of Jack's contact sounded mystified through the phone.  "Does that mean anything to you?"

"Mr. Bristow?"

Jack shook himself out of his reverie.  Irina was missing, he had no idea where Sydney had spent the last two years, and Sloane was a world charity figure.  At least there was one thing in his life that remained constant.  "Be at this number for the next 30 minutes," he said shortly, and rang off.  The Abbe, he thought with affection.  His lifeline. 

He took a deep breath, trying to relax and visualize the chessboards in his head.  He wouldn't stoop to using physical boards now that he was out.  A point of honor.  The Abbe was still working from memory; so would he.  He lost himself in contemplation of his options for several minutes.

"Yes?" he heard through the phone when he rang through.

"Write 'c4' and 'Bd6'.  I expect to hear from you tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," came the puzzled voice at the other end of the phone.

**

Jack entered Dr. Barnett's office with a marked lack of enthusiasm.  Silently he catalogued to himself all the things he'd rather be doing than discussing his relationship with Irina.  He wondered if Barnett was aware that the NSC had used her notes from his previous sessions during his interrogations.  One of the more unpleasant surprises of the past year. 

"Welcome back, Agent Bristow."  Barnett waved him towards the all-too-familiar couch.  Jack's depression deepened as he saw the look of anticipation on her face.  "I've had the opportunity to study your file since our last discussion.  I see that you actually interacted with your wife a number of times over the year prior to your incarceration."

"Please refer to her as Irina Derevko, Doctor."

"She *is* your wife as well?"

"Yes, but I find it. . . complicates the discussion to confuse our relationship with a normal marriage."

Barnett made a note on the pad in front of her.  "As you wish.  Would you cover the high points of your interactions over the year in question with Irina Derevko?"

"I think all the relevant information has been documented," he pointed out in a vain attempt to deflect her.

"In your own words, please, Agent Bristow," said Barnett, unmoved.

Jack sighed in defeat, collecting his thoughts.  "Very well.  My first interaction with Irina was immediately following Sydney's death.  I mean," he corrected himself automatically, "after we thought she had died."

"In person?"

"No.  By phone.  It was too dangerous for her to return to the US.  It was. . . hard for her to not be at Sydney's funeral."

"And how would you characterize the tone of that call?"

"Devastating, at first.  For both of us."  Jack swallowed uncomfortably, momentarily reliving his despair.  "I think the act of telling her finally made it real for me.  Then. . . ," his voice trailed off.

"Yes?" Barnett prompted.

"Then bitter.  Recriminatory.  Both of us just reacted in the moment.  Things were said that," he paused, taking a deep breath, "well, I just hung up.  Actually," he amended, reminding himself that sticking close to the truth was always the best strategy, "I smashed the phone against a brick wall.  And we didn't speak to each other again.  Until. . . ,"

". . . until Sarajevo?" 

"Yes."

"That wasn't a CIA mission, was it?"

"No," Jack admitted.  "It was off the books.  The CIA had closed Sydney's case after two months, pulled back resources.  I was obsessed, though, with finding her killers.  I had broadcast widely through my different networks that I would pay well for any lead, no matter how small.  Sarajevo was just one of many contacts I received.  It did not," he said reflectively, "go well."

_Thunk._

_Jack staggered to his knees as the rifle butt slammed into his ribs with a sickening crunch.  Reflexively he tested the ropes around his hands one more time, with no success.  He stared up at the man in front of him, vision blurred by the steady flow of blood dripping from a gash above his right eye.  Even with one eye, the crazed expression of his attacker chilled him._

_A trap.  Obsessed with finding Sydney's murderers, he had become careless.  Out of the countless enemies he had made over the years; one had seen fit to lure him in._

_Jack lurched sideways, successfully dodging a blow aimed at his head and deflecting it to his shoulders instead.  His assailant had said nothing.  Needed to say nothing.  Jack had recognized him instantly.  Eight years ago Jack had led a mission that had resulted in the deaths of two of the man's sons, and life imprisonment for the third.  Any attempts at negotiation had died stillborn on Jack's tongue; in this part of the world, only his life was acceptable repayment for the debt.  The brutal efficiency of his beating was just a prelude, he knew._

_Jack's head snapped back as his assailant's boot connected with his jaw and he crumpled to the floor with a groan, fighting to remain conscious through the haze of pain.  He felt the cold steel of the gun barrel placed against his head and closed his eyes in resignation.  To all intents and purposes, he had died three months ago when Sydney's remains had been positively identified.  Perhaps it was best that it ended here.  He tensed for the shot, and flinched as the sound of a gun firing filled the room._

_Flinched?  He should have been dead.  Carefully he opened his eyes._

_"Hello, Jack."_  

"It says here in your report that Irina contacted you during the course of the mission."

_Irina.  Jack's shoulders sagged in relief.  "I had him right where I wanted him," he gasped shakily._

_"I could tell," Irina agreed, surveying the battered form of her husband.  She bent down and swiftly sliced through the ropes around Jack's wrists.  "Friend of yours?"_

_"Not any more," he replied, looking at the corpse lying next to him._

_"Can you stand?" she asked curiously._

_"I'll be fine," he answered stiffly, slowly getting to his feet.  With effort he stood upright, slowly swaying.  "I don't need any hel--."  He slumped to the floor, unconscious._

_Irina rolled her eyes._

"Yes, she did.  Apparently, she was also aware that this contact was offering information on Sydney's death, and had arrived shortly after I did."

"Your report states that you made an attempt to apprehend her, but failed."

_When Jack awoke next, he found himself in a large comfortable bed.  He rolled over to get a closer look at his surroundings and groaned aloud.  Footsteps sounded and Irina came into view.  Noting the creases of pain on Jack's forehead, she silently handed him a glass of water and a large white pill, standing over him until he swallowed it.  _

_Jack sank back down into the pillows.  "Where am I?" he asked wearily._

_"Does it matter?"_

_"No," he conceded.  "I guess it doesn't."  Tentatively he flexed his arms and legs.  "Anything broken?"_

_"A couple of ribs," Irina replied matter-of-factly.  "Thirty-eight stitches, assorted bruises, and one gorgeous shiner.  It is," she said with asperity, "better than you deserve.  Honestly, Jack, you can't go into that kind of situation without backup.  What were you thinking?"_

_"I was thinking about our daughter," he replied with an edge to his voice.  "What do *you* think about these days?"_

_Irina's lips tightened in anger.  "Don't start, Jack," she said warningly, turning to leave._

_ "Running away again?" he jeered with his remaining strength._

_Irina turned back, her eyes flashing.  "You -," she halted, taking in his white face and the bleak expression in his eyes.  She took a deep breath and, reaching out, squeezed his hand.  "I miss her too," she said quietly._

_Too tired to fight, Jack felt oddly comforted.  _

_Irina smoothed the hair back on his head.  "I need to leave," she said softly._

_"You can't," Jack said from the depths of the bed, starting to become drowsy from the effects of the pain medication.  "You're under arrest."_

_"Oh?" responded Irina with a quirk of her mouth._

_"Yeah," Jack said sleepily, his eyes heavy.  "Don't go anywhere.  When I wake up, I'll take you in."_

_"Whatever you say, Jack," she said, pulling up the blanket._

 "She drugged me.  When I woke up, she was gone."

"I see," said Barnett making a few notes.  "Unplanned encounter," she wrote.  "Limited interaction.  Failure to apprehend."  She studied Jack, who was waiting patiently for her to finish.  His face was open and sincerity was written across his features.  "Assessment of subject veracity: High," she added, then looked up.  "The next time you saw her?"

"Manila."

"Hmmm, yes," she said absently, scanning the page in front of her.  "You were freelancing again."

_Stealthily Jack crept down the alley, careful to stay within the shadows clinging to walls.  Up ahead he could just make out two figures.  He slid his frame into a doorsill and watched as money changed hands.  The larger of the two was his target, a possible source of information._

_A shot rang out and his target dropped to the ground.  Jack cursed as he looked up and saw the shooter on the roof, but held his fire.  Frustrated as he was by the loss of intel, this wasn't his fight.  He pulled back further into the shadows and saw the second figure turn and sprint out of danger.  As he ran, Jack noticed a lock of hair loosen from under the hat and stream behind.  With a start, he recognized Irina.  He reached behind him and jiggled the door handle, finding to his surprise and relief that the door gave way.  As she sprinted by he reached out and grabbed her, hauling her with him as he leaned backward against the door. _

"You spotted Derevko while on a stakeout, and attempted to apprehend her."  Her eyebrow rose.  "She eluded you again."  A tiny wisp of disbelief hung in the air between them.

"She pulled a knife," said Jack pointedly.  "No one in their right mind takes on Derevko with a knife."  Close to the truth again, he thought to himself.

_They tumbled together into the darkened room and Jack kicked the door closed with one foot before seeing the glint of a knife blade slashing towards him.  Throwing his arm up in a delayed block, he hissed in pain as the blade sliced through his shirt and slid along his arm.  "For God's sake, Irina, it's me!" he breathed in an urgent undertone._

_"Jack?" came her stunned voice, arm poised to descend again.  They both froze as they heard steps running by the door._

_"Yes," he said bitterly once the steps had receded.  "You're welcome."  His hand was clamped over his arm._

_"You shouldn't have gotten involved.  I was doing just fine."_

_"Yeah, that was pretty obvious.  And where was *your* backup?"_

_"I didn't want to spook the source.  He was nervous about being seen."_

_"With some reason, apparently.  I don't suppose you got his intel before he was shot?"_

_"No."_

_"Do you know who killed Sydney?" he asked bluntly._

_"Not yet."_

_Jack eyed the knife in her hand warily.  "Well, then, I guess I'd better be going."_

_"Let me look at your arm first."_

_"It's fine."_

_"Shut up, Jack.  Move your hand and let me see."_

_With a gesture of disgust, Jack pulled his hand away.  The cut was shallow, but bleeding freely.  Irina shrugged off her coat, then lifted her blouse over her head.  Jack raised his eyebrows._

_"Bandage," Irina said shortly, efficiently shredding the blouse into lengths.  With an effort, Jack shifted his eyes to her hands, which were now competently tying up the wound.  When she was finished, she sat back and scanned her handiwork critically.  "Better."  She looked up and saw Jack watching her, eyes unreadable.  "I've got to go," she said neutrally, buttoning her coat.  Standing up, she reached down and offered him her hand._

_"Irina," he started, not letting go.._

_"Now," she said, a tinge of regret in her voice.  His grip loosened, and her fingers slid through his as she slipped out the door._

"And then," said Jack steadily, "she slipped through my fingers a 2nd time."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17 

"You *were* the only CIA operative that had spotted her during this period, weren't you?" inquired Barnett.

"We were both pursuing the same information.  It would have been surprising if we didn't run into each other occasionally."

"So at what point did the two of you begin working together?"

_"I am so very sorry, sahib," came the oily voice over the satellite phone.  "But there is another bidder for these pictures.  Unless you are prepared to increase your offer, which let me assure you was most generous to begin with, I will have no choice but to sell them to the other party.  I must feed my family, you know," he finished virtuously._

_"You want *more*?" Jack queried in exasperation, rapidly calculating in his head.  The thief.  "Give me 4 hours," he said with sudden inspiration.  Hanging up, he rapidly dialed a number, one that he had only used once before._

_"Irina?"_

_"Jack?"_

_"You wouldn't, by chance, be engaged in a bidding war for some photographs, would you?"_

_Jack heard silence, then a rich chuckle.  "You?"_

_"Yes," Jack said with irritation.  "And the only person benefiting is the seller."_

"When it became clear that working separately was slowing my progress at identifying Sydney's killers."

_"What do you propose?"_

_"Withdraw your bid."_

_"And?"_

_"And what?"_

_"I want the information, Jack."_

_Jack was silent for a moment, pondering.  "Fine.  You pay half the cost, and I'll show you the photos."_

_This time Irina was silent.  "Jack?  You have other information about Sydney as well?"_

_"Perhaps," he said grudgingly._

_"So do I.  I'll show you mine. . . if you show me yours."_

"So, the arrangement was purely for the purpose of identifying Sydney's murderers?"

"Yes.  Although Derevko occasionally provided other intelligence beneficial to US interests."

"Why?" asked Barnett curiously.  "What did she expect in return?"

"Nothing.  She knew she had walked away from her only chance at an immunity deal in Panama.  I think that she saw it as a kind of offering.  To Sydney's memory."

"And you didn't find it difficult, working with Derevko?  With all the history you have between the two of you?"

"I won't say that our discussions were always cordial.  But we're both professionals.  We compartmentalize well.  And whatever – undercurrents – there may have been, as a business relationship it worked well."  Jack was starting to relax.  The session was going better than he had expected.  He looked surreptitiously at the clock on the wall and saw that time was almost up.

"A business relationship."  Barnett was silent for several moments, regarding Jack thoughtfully.  "Agent Bristow, you should be aware that I have access to both of the surveillance photos that were obtained by the NSC.  Is there anything that you would care to add to that statement?"

Not a muscle moved in Jack's face as all illusions of an easy interview evaporated.  "You're referring to the fact that I had sex with my wife?"

"I'm referring to the fact that you were having sex with Irina Derevko," replied Barnett pointedly.

Perhaps the NSC should just post that picture on the Internet and get it over with, thought Jack bitterly.  He forced himself to swallow his fury and shrug indifferently.   "One of the undercurrents that I mentioned.  We were, after all, married for 10 years.  And consenting adults."

"So it was just – forgive me, Agent Bristow, but I feel I must be frank – casual sex?"

Jack stared at her for a minute, not trusting himself to speak.  "*Are* we being frank?" he finally replied, goaded.  "If so, then I should tell you that the last adjective in the world I would use to describe sex with Irina Derevko is 'casual'."

Barnett gave him a withering look.  "I realize this conversation is difficult for you, Agent Bristow, but my interest is not prurient.  She is an enemy agent.  You are trying to gain a security clearance predicated on your ability to place the needs of this country above those of foreign powers.  Please do not be deliberately obtuse."

Jack ground his teeth.  "The answer to your question, Dr. Barnett, is that there was no implied commitment either personally or professionally as a result of our physical intimacy."

"Thank you."  

Neither said anything for several moments.  Barnett wrote several notes; Jack leaned back in his chair and prayed for lightning to strike.

"So," said Barnett, scanning the page.  "What you have told me is that your relationship with Irina Derevko during the year in question was centered around your professional objectives."

"Yes."

"And that, while a personal relationship existed, it was transitory in nature and you had no difficulty in separating the two."

"Yes."

"And, in the absence of those professional objectives, there would have been no personal relationship at all."

"Correct."

"And that the primary objective was to find Sydney's murderers."

"Yes."

"And I'm correct in assuming that that objective, the reason for your relationship, has disappeared with Sydney's return?"

"Yes," said Jack slowly.

"For Irina as well as for you?"

Jack paused.  "Yes," he said reluctantly.

"So," said Barnett, leaning forward as if she were a runner hitting the tape, "describe for me now your current relationship with Irina Derevko."  

Jack sat in silence.  "I don't know," he finally admitted.  The first absolutely honest statement he had made that day.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N:  We interrupt this broadcast for some plot.  The pace begins to pick up at this point.  In the interests of full disclosure – this fic is 40 chapters long.

***********

**Chapter 18**

His dinner sitting next to him half-eaten, Jack moodily perched at his kitchen counter and repeatedly played the surveillance tape in slow motion.  Frame by frame he searched for clues.  On Lazarey.  On Sydney.  In the room.  Nothing.  He pushed the laptop away in frustration, rubbing his temples.  There had to be something there.  They couldn't be at a dead end.  

Wearily, he reached over and hit play again, forgetting to slow it down.  Watched Sydney walk into the room.  Watched Lazarey greet her.  Watched – he froze -  what had Lazarey said?  Jack played it several more times and gave up, defeated.  Russian lip reading was not a skill he possessed.  He'd need some help.  Carefully he isolated the portion of the video with Lazarey's mouth, made a disk, and went to visit a specialist who owed him a favor.

**

Jack stared at the piece of paper and felt the blood drain from his face.  Clearing his throat, he looked up.  "You're sure?  There can be no mistake?"

"It's a pretty good angle.  I'm virtually positive."

Jack reread the slip of paper and felt sick.  "Julia, it's good to see you again."

Julia.  Julia Thorne.  It wasn't possible.  No one knew that name.  Jack had many secrets.  But this one he would have gone to his grave with.  Sydney's Project Christmas code name.  Julia Thorne.

_"Sydney?" Jack called up the stairs._

_"Yes, Daddy?" came the young voice._

_"Time to play that game again, sweetheart."_

_"Coming!"  Jack watched as his 6-year-old daughter skipped down the stairs and threw herself into his arms.  _

_"I'm so glad you're home again, Daddy.  Please promise you won't leave me again."_

_"I promise," he said, fear clutching his heart.  Would the KGB come for her?  "Sit down in the chair, pumpkin."_

_Sydney giggled as she climbed into the chair.  "Daddy, I'm not a pumpkin."_

_"Are you sure?  Now close your eyes and count backwards from 25."_

_"25. . . 24. . . 23. . . . . . . . 3. . . 2. . . 1. . . ."_

_Jack quietly spoke a phrase, and waited.  Sydney's eyes opened._

_"Julia?  Are you ready to do some exercises?"_

A decision made in fear.  Fear that the KGB would come for Sydney.  She was, after all, half theirs.  But if they took her, he could always reclaim her.  

Someone else had reclaimed her.  But who?  And how?  And. . . why?

Devastated, he had no memory of driving home.  How much had that mistake cost Sydney?  Two years of her life in someone else's control. Heaven knows what she'd done, what she'd have to live with.  And it had cost her Vaughn.  Would cost him his second chance.  She'd never trust him again when she found out. . . 

. . . if she found out, said a small voice.

**

"There. . . you see that?"  Sydney pointed at the screen of her father's laptop.  They were sitting together in his apartment several days later.

"No."

Sydney backed up the video slowly, replaying the section before she slit Lazarey's throat.  "What do you mean? L. . . look there. . . he's saying. . . he's saying "Jule. . . or Julie. . . "

"He could be saying any number of things," said Jack hurriedly, trying to distract her.  "Sydney, I have already subjected this video to the most intense technological scrutiny available to the CIA."

"Maybe Julia. . . ," said Sydney whispering to herself.  
"If you want me to order a reanalysis, fine, but you have to stop punishing yourself."

"There's go to be something in there that can lead us to. . . "  
Jack slammed down the lid of the laptop.  "Sydney, no good will come from doing this."

"I committed a murder I have no memory of; this isn't about punishment!"

"I understand this haunts you, but you have to stop. . . "

**

Jack scanned the airline records in front of him, trying to make sense of what he had found.  Julia Thorne – Sydney – had been booked on a flight to LA the day he was arrested.  Frowning, he sketched the timeline on the pad to his left.  She had murdered Lazarey the morning of the 26th; boarded a plane the morning of the 27th; been scheduled to arrive in LA the 27th at 12:35 pm.  He'd been arrested the 27th at 1:30pm.

His hand shook.  She'd been flying to see him.  He'd been hours, maybe minutes, from meeting with the daughter he'd buried the year before.  Had Sloane known?  Known that Sydney was coming to him for help?  Was *that* what had driven the timing of his arrest?

Jack leaned back in his chair.  Only two people would be able to answer that question.

**

"Okay, Sydney, the test is over."  

Sydney removed the two disks that were covering her eyes and looked at her father questioningly.

"If you were still under the influence of any valid brainwashing technique, I'd know it. As for your memory loss, some forms of torture, electroconvulsive shock therapy for example, can cause amnesia."

"So you think I was tortured?"

"Possibly," said Jack demurring.  "We may never know."

Sydney rubbed her arms with her hands, trying to get warm.  "Dad, I have to know.  Maybe I should let the NSC try to recover my memories."

Jack took her hand in hers.  "Trust me, Sydney, that's not the answer.  And sometimes, sweetheart, not knowing can be a gift."

**

Numbly Jack packed up the testing equipment.  Locked out.  He'd hypnotized her to access her Project Christmas memories, and he'd been locked out.  Someone had changed the trigger phrase; without it, Jack had no control.  Sydney could be activated to Julia at any time.  And he wouldn't be able to stop it.

Who could have done this?  The list of suspects was small, indeed.  Headed by the man who'd put him away as soon as he'd discovered his daughter was alive.

Sloane.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19 (Zurich) 

Jack strode to the office door and forcefully hauled it open, ignoring the ineffectual protests of Sloane's personal assistant.  Sloane was half-turned away from him, talking on the phone.  Jack jerked the phone out of his hand and slammed it down.

Sloane scanned Jack appraisingly, then turned to his assistant, who had chased Jack in.  "It's alright, Arlena.  An old friend.  Give the Secretary my apologies and tell him I'll call back later."  She rapidly backed out of the office, closing the door behind her.

"A world relief organization," sneered Jack.  "The sheer audacity of your alleged turnaround would be laughable, if you weren't so dangerous."

"I was wondering when you'd come to see me, Jack," said Sloane calmly.  "Do you have a permission slip from Lindsey?"

"Lindsey?" Jack's sneer became more pronounced.  "Do you think he could stop me?  Do you think he even knows I'm gone?"  Jack looked pointedly around the office, taking in the pictures of Arvin shaking hands with world leaders, the plaques, the magazine clippings. "You don't really expect me to believe that you've changed."

"I expect you to believe in the consistency of my obsessions, Jack.  I pursued the Rambaldi puzzle across the world for over 30 years. It never occurred to me that when the artifacts were finally assembled, that they would produce nothing more than a message...of peace."

"Personally, I would have found it anticlimactic...that after expecting to assemble a weapon of ultimate power, you ended up with a revelation you could have acquired from a fortune cookie."

Sloane smiled patiently.  "Always the atheist, Jack."

"I'll come to the point," Jack snapped.  "I believe you're responsible for Sydney's disappearance. Tell me why, right now, so I can give her the peace of mind she deserves. In exchange, I'll halt my efforts to invalidate your pardon agreement."

"Jack, don't go digging; you won't find anything.  I investigated Sydney's death, too."  Sloane slid a disk across the desk toward Jack.  "This file contains all the leads I pursued...mostly dead ends. I'm hoping you'll find something in it that's useful. I trust that you will look at it...before you dismiss it outright."

"Should I take this as your official denial of any involvement in Sydney's disappearance?"

Sloane nodded.

"Then you've just made the worst mistake of your life. I'm going to *bury* you."

 Sloane shook his head sadly.  "Jack, I've missed you." 

"Missed me?" repeated Jack incredulously.  "Touching.  Given that you put me away."

Sloane shrugged. "I assume you're talking about these."  He reached into a drawer and, pulling out two pictures, slid them across the table.  "Here.  They're yours.  Your efforts to block my pardon were. . . troublesome.  I needed to serve up a major terrorist, and cast doubt on your reliability."  A small lie, he thought to himself.  There had never really been any doubt that Lindsey would come through.  "But never for a moment, Jack, did I think that you would be so misguided as to go to prison to protect Derevko," said Sloane earnestly.  "Particularly given that - ," he stopped abruptly, but observed Jack through half-closed eyes to see if he would take the bait.

"Given what?" prompted Jack frowning, his mind focused on the pictures.  There was something about them. . . 

Sloane felt a surge of satisfaction.  This, he thought to himself, was better than sex.  "Jack," he said sympathetically.  "It must have been a shock to see those pictures.  Irina's villa, I presume?  One would have thought that the two of you would have had privacy there."

Jack's focus shifted back to Sloane and his jaw tightened.  "Do you have a point, Arvin?"

Sloane shook his head sadly.  "One of the best analytical minds in the business, and you're refusing to admit the obvious.  What are the odds that either you or Irina was sloppy enough to be followed?  That *both* of you missed video surveillance placed _inside_ her home?  Sloane leaned back in his chair, eyes glittering.  "Come on, Jack.  Look closely at those photos.  There's only one person who could have supplied them to me."

Jack's face paled as the import of Sloane's words became clear.

"Irina," said Sloane smugly.

Jack's hand snaked out and grabbed Sloane by the collar, yanking him halfway across the desk.  "You're lying!" he hissed.

Sloane, making no attempt to struggle, shrugged carelessly.  "Whatever you say, Jack.  Ask her yourself.  You'll be seeing her soon?"  That should do it, thought Sloane happily.  He wouldn't trust a word she'd say.

_A meeting is not possible_.

"Yes."  Jack dropped Sloane on to the desk, turned on his heel, and left.  

**

Morosely Jack swirled the scotch in his glass, watching the flickering reflections of amber light.  A small amount of the precious liquid spilled out of the glass; an unsteady hand corrected the glass's angle.  _Love, loyalty, affection, trust_.

Sloane had, of course, been right.  Any objective assessment of the pictures' provenance pointed directly to Irina.  That Jack had effectively ignored this conclusion for more than a year in prison was a testament to the degree of his self-delusion.  

She must have known that Sydney was alive all along.  Must have activated her.  Sought out the intel on her death to keep him from finding out.  Worked with him to steer him in the wrong direction.  And when he had discovered her deception…unconsciously his hand tightened on his glass.

_Love, loyalty, affection, trust_.  The pressure of his hand increased.  _Betrayal_.  The glass shattered, spraying glass shards and liquid over the floor.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20 

_The sun beat down mercilessly, the glare almost blinding him. Buried up to his neck in the soft sand, Jack struggled frantically but was unable to move.  He could hear the thunder of the waves behind him, and felt a cold chill on the back of his neck as a finger of one of the waves stretched up and touched him.  In front of him, Sloane conscientiously tamped down the last of the sand before standing up satisfied._

_"Don't. leave. me. here."  It came out as a plea, and Jack silently cursed himself for showing weakness.  _

_Sloane brushed the sand off his hands, and smiled smugly.  Raising his hand to shade his eyes, he studied the ocean. "Tide's coming in pretty fast," he said off-handedly.  A larger wave hit the back of Jack's head.   Sloane smirked as water dripped down Jack's face.  "The fun's in the anticipation, don't you think, Jack?  I mean, we both know how this will end.  We just don't know when, exactly."  With a manic laugh, Sloane turned on his heel and headed up the beach, out of sight._

_Jack desperately tried to jerk his body free from the weight of the sand, but it was no use.  She'll come, he told himself, swallowing his fear.  Larger waves crashed over his head and receded.  Jack shook his head to clear the water out of his eyes, trying to ignore the roar behind him as waves crashed closer and closer.  The high tide mark was a good 20 feet beyond him.  He would be covered in another couple of minutes._

_A movement caught the corner of his eye, far down the beach.  A piece of paper?  A bird?  He craned his neck to see and was rewarded with a face full of water as another wave crashed on top of him.  Ominously, the wave did not recede.  The water level was now half way up his neck.  Stifling his panic, he continued to focus on the spot in the distance.  It was moving closer.  It was running.  It was_

_"Irina!" he yelled.  "Here!"_

_He coughed as he swallowed a mouthful of seawater.  Swiveling his head again, he could see she was running faster.  The water was up to his chin now – it would be close.  He tilted his head upwards, struggling to breathe.  He could no longer turn to watch her.  Would she come?  In time?_

_"Hello, Jack."_

_A shadow loomed in front of him.  Irina, holding a bucket.  "Thank God," he breathed.  "Hurry!"  And then watched with horror as she lifted the bucket and poured water over his head, covering him completely.  He couldn't breathe.  He was. . ._

_Drowning._

**

"Agent Bristow, welcome back.  I hope you've recovered from the flu?"

"Yes, thank you, Dr. Barnett.  Just a stomach virus, I think, getting adjusted to normal food again," Jack lied easily.  It hadn't taken him long to find the transmitter the NSC had inserted in his watch while he was in prison.  It had spent the past 24 hours in his bed while he had gone to visit Sloane in Zurich.

"I'd like to see if we can wrap this up today, Agent Bristow.  Last time we met you were expressing some confusion about your relationship with your w-, with Irina Derevko," she said, smoothly recovering.

"Yes," agreed Jack.  "It's been a difficult few years for me, and I haven't always been clear in my own mind about the strength of my feelings towards her."

Barnett nodded sympathetically.  Return of a long-dead wife, death of his daughter, imprisonment.  Silently she indicated that he should continue.

Jack took a deep breath.  "But these sessions have really helped," he said with noteworthy sincerity.  "And the past 24 hours have allowed me to crystallize my thinking."  At least one of those was true, he thought grimly to himself.

"Yes?" Barnett prompted.  

"I now recognize that I was just deluding myself.  I believed because we both grieved over our daughter's death, that something more might be possible."  
"And?" said Barnett encouragingly.

"I've finally realized that the only certainty in my relationship with Irina Derevko is that she'll use me whenever it's convenient for her.  I'm no more to her than a chip in some greater game that she is playing."  Jack paused, his mouth set in a grim line.  "We shared a past.  We don't share a future."  

Dr. Barnett sat back in her seat.  In those rare moments when she was completely honest with herself, she acknowledged that she had chosen a profession where success was difficult to measure and failure blindingly obvious.  Helping Jack Bristow to finally see Irina Derevko clearly was a triumph.

"Congratulations, Agent Bristow," said Barnett warmly as she signed the bottom of his evaluation form and returned it to him.  "You're ability to analyze this situation objectively does you credit."

**

The Abbe pondered the most recent moves left in the dust of the exercise run with a frown.  The first was easy – 'Nc3' – and the Abbe responded by castling.  "Castle often, castle early," the Abbe recited softly.  The second – the Abbe looked again, startled. 'Qf6+'.  Good god, he was sacrificing his queen.  In almost a year of play, the Abbe's opponent had never sacrificed his queen, a tactical weakness that the Abbe had tested on a number of occasions.  

But there it was, thought the Abbe, deciding on a response. 'Nxf6'.  Accept the sacrifice.  But it was pointless, the Abbe knew.  The game was as good as over now.  The Abbe was losing.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21 (China) 

"You'll give this to the Covenant," said Sydney, handing the memory chip to Sloane.  They sat together in the rear of a limo speeding down a Chinese highway.  "It contains the corrupted copy of the operating system. The Covenant will track it back to the Chinese prototype, which has also been corrupted. They won't suspect that you've betrayed them."  Sydney shifted her position on the seat slightly, trying to surreptitiously increase the distance between herself and Sloane.  It was insufficient to quell her nausea at the thought of working with him on their first mission together.

"I see," said Sloane wryly.  "I wonder how many times your handler said something like that to you before you were about to give me something like this? A small object of tremendous value that I asked you to steal for SD-6 that you then rendered useless in order to prevent its exploitation by the Alliance."

"It happened on occasion," said Sydney sarcastically, looking out her window.

"There was a time you trusted me. . . ,"

_"Julia, come here and give me a hug."  Julia looked up with delight and, spying her father, ran to him and wrapped her arms around his legs._

_"You're here!  I thought you wouldn't be coming until tomorrow!"_

_Sloane bent down to kiss her on the head.  "I was able to get away early."_

_"I drew some pictures for you, Daddy."_

_"Why don't you run and get them, honey, while I talk to Mr. Peters."  Sloane watched her scamper a way, an adoring look on his face._

_"How is she progressing, Lazarey?"  Sloane's voice turned brusque._

_Lazarey shook his head in awe.  "She's the best of any I have trained.  A virtuoso with a knife.  No remorse.  She never breaks back to her other self."_

_"Her 'other self' isn't all that happy, Lazarey.  Maybe it's just easier for her to forget."_

_Lazarey shrugged.  As if he cared about the happiness of the test subjects.  "Why are you here early?"_

_"Bristow's mission finished sooner than anticipated.  I've got to get her back to her camp.  Make sure she has lots of memories of singing around the campfire."_

_"No problem.  She'll sing all the way back in the car.  It will drive him crazy."_

_"Daddy, look!" Julia had returned and tugged on Sloane's arm insistently.  _

_"Those are beautiful, sweetheart.  Would you like to have a picnic on the way home?"_

_"Oh, yes!"_

_"See you next summer, Julia," said Lazarey._

"That was before I knew who you were. . . That was before I knew who I was. . . ," said Sydney.

"Oh, no," corrected Sloane.  "It was more recent than that."

_Jack lay supine on the stretcher, floating in and out of consciousness. In the next room Il Dire hummed. _

_"Tell me, Jack.  Tell me the trigger phrase."_

_Jack shook his head groggily.  Sloane cursed.  Dammit. When had Jack changed the trigger?  He'd kept it the same all through Sydney's childhood, having safeguarded it with Arvin in case anything happened to him.  He'd never suspected that Sloane was supplementing Sydney's conditioning.  Had he changed it when he became a double?  When Sydney was recruited?_

_No matter, thought Sloane grinding his teeth together.  He *would* have it.  With Emily gone, Julia was all he had left.  "Turn up the IV," he ordered.  They had been at this now for 12 hours.  Jack had buried it deep._

_Two hours later, he had his answer.  How predictable, he smirked.  From Tolstoy's War and Peace. Still secretly fascinated with all things Russian.  "Will he remember this, Doctor?"_

_"No.  He'll wake up disoriented in a couple of hours and remember nothing."_

_"Excellent."  Sloane could hardly wait to see Julia again.  And he had.  12 hours later._

"The day you were found in Hong Kong," he continued, "your. . . resurrection, as it were. . . this letter arrived at my office."  He removed a letter from his coat pocket and held it out to Sydney.  "My analyst confirmed what I recognized instantly, what I'm sure you'll verify on your own. . . the handwriting is yours."

Sydney took the envelope with a puzzled expression on her face.  She opened it to find a small manila envelope that said "For Sydney" on it.  Opening it, she found a key and a small piece of paper with a set of numbers on it.

"I'd never seen that code before," said Sloane, interrupting her thoughts. "I didn't want to offer it to anyone else. Unfortunately, I couldn't decipher it myself. But since those items were once in your possession, I thought you might want them back."

Sydney stared at the key in her hand and then at the code.  "Thanks," she said shortly.  She needed to discuss this with her father.

Sloane leant back in the seat of the limo and closed his eyes.  Yes, this would do nicely.  A final nail in Irina's coffin.  He was sure Irina had been the meddler that had reversed Julia's programming; this letter had confirmed it.  He'd let Jack do the work of finding her.  Then she could be eliminated, if Jack hadn't done it first.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22  
  
"Bristow."  
  
"Dad. . . ," Sydney's voice sounded strained over the phone connection.  
  
"Sydney. Are you all right? You sound upset."  
  
"Yeah. . . no, I'm fine. Did you receive my transmission?"  
  
"Yes," Jack affirmed. "Sloane gave you a key, which he claims was sent to him some time before you woke up in Hong Kong. "  
  
"Yeah, his claim was pretty convincing...it was written in my handwriting."  
  
"The cyphertext as well?" asked Jack, trying to keep his tone neutral.  
  
"Yes. Why?"  
  
"Remember I told you I worked with your mother while you were missing? That ciphertext was encoded using a method that she devised."  
  
"What does this mean? That I was in contact with Mom during the two years I was gone?"  
  
"If that's true, she failed to mention it during our last communication," said Jack, struggling to keep the fury out of his voice. As if he needed more proof, he thought to himself bitterly.  
  
"Can you break the code?"  
  
"Yes, I learned the code from your mother last year. It's an address in Rome: 1124 Piazza Barberini, the penthouse apartment."  
  
**  
  
Well, *that* had gone well, Jack thought to himself sarcastically as he let himself back into his apartment one week later. Sydney captured by the NSC, Sloane shot, he and Vaughn imprisoned. Jack's lips tightened as he contemplated Lindsey's words when he and Vaughn had been released. "Absence of proof is not the same as absence of guilt, Agent Bristow. There will come a time when you make a mistake. And I will find you." Better bring an army, muttered Jack to himself.  
  
And what had they gotten for all that effort? Lazarey's decomposing hand. Who had buried that hand? Sydney? Someone else? And more important, why?  
  
A stack of mail sat on his counter, forwarded to him by his lawyer on his release from prison. Indifferently he riffled through the bills when his fingers suddenly stilled. There was a letter in Sydney's handwriting, addressed to him. He immediately dropped it onto the table and went to put on some latex gloves. He'd try to lift prints from it later.  
  
Carefully he sliced the envelope open. Out fell a. . . key envelope. He grimaced. On the outside was written "For Sydney." He pondered it for a moment, then made his way to the kitchen to start some water boiling. Sometimes the simplest spycraft was the best.  
  
Several minutes later he scanned the message inside with frustration. A coded message. Which he couldn't decipher. But he had a suspicion.  
  
*  
  
"Dr. Caplan, thank you for meeting with me. I have some follow-up questions for you on your capture by Sloane and Derevko."  
  
"No problem at all," replied Neil Caplan, puzzled, "but it's been almost 3 years. I'm not sure I'll remember too many details."  
  
"Don't worry," said Jack easily. "I'm just looking for an impression." He slid a piece of paper across the desk. "Tell me what you see."  
  
"Hmmm. . . the paper appears to be -,"  
  
"Not the paper. The writing."  
  
"I don't recognize the handwriting, if that's what you're asking. And I certainly can't read the message, because it's clearly in code. . . .," Caplan's voice trailed off as he pondered the message in front of him.  
  
"Yes?" asked Jack encouragingly.  
  
"I'm not sure, but I think I recognize some of these patterns."  
  
"From what?" Jack prompted.  
  
"I had access to a number of documents that Sloane and Derevko were sharing. There were coded notes on the bottom - a fairly unique cipher. Yes, I'm fairly confident that this is part of the same family."  
  
"Thank you, Dr. Caplan. You've been most helpful."  
  
**  
  
Jack rubbed his head in exasperation. The last envelope had almost gotten Sydney killed; he didn't think he'd be sharing this one with her any time soon. And he certainly was not eager to provide her any other information about her missing two years. But he wouldn't be able to translate the message inside himself unless he went to either Sloane or Irina.  
  
Well, it wouldn't be Sloane. Sloane had certainly proved himself during Sydney's rescue, but Jack wasn't stupid.  
  
Inna. High time he found her. And had a chat.  
  
**  
  
Irina slowly put down her phone.  
  
Jack had been spotted at her villa. Combing it for clues, no doubt, as to her location. Not very subtle, Jack, she thought to herself. Although she suspected that having already seen Sloane, subtlety was not the number one thing on Jack's mind.  
  
She wondered if Jack had found her note.  
  
**  
  
Methodically Jack ran his hands over Irina's desk, willing it to yield some trace of its owner's location. They had spent so much time in this room - listing contacts, scanning maps, planning operations. She had been fond of this desk, he knew. An image of her pressed up against it, his hands tangled in her hair, was rigorously suppressed. A lie. The whole thing had been a lie.  
  
With a small grunt of satisfaction, he found what he was looking for. A small depression on the side which, when pressed, slid open to reveal a hidden drawer. He exhaled in satisfaction when he saw a piece of paper inside, something that must have been left behind in her hurry. He hastily reached down and pulled it out.  
  
He reread the note twice, to make sure.  
  
"Truth takes time?"  
  
With a snarl of frustration he ripped it into tiny pieces, hurling them into the air.  
  
B*tch.  
  
**  
  
Sloane hung up the phone. Jack had led them to Irina's villa, the one in the pictures. He shook his head admiringly. She had been thorough. Although it appeared that she and her staff had departed in a rush, his men had combed it after Jack had left and found nothing. Except, of course, the hidden heliport, 2 escape tunnels, and an underground weapons cache. Quite the home designer was Irina.   
  
And Jack's next move would be? Sloane puzzled to himself. Well if he knew that, he would have found Irina himself. He'd just have to wait and see.  
  
It was difficult to suppress a certain smug satisfaction. Jack was so predictable. Of course he'd been carrying the pictures with him. He'd want to wave them in Irina's face. How was he to know that they'd been coated with a substance visible in the infrared wave spectrum? And that Sloane's men trailed him 24/7 from a distance of a 1/4 mile? 


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23 (St. Petersburg, Russia) 

Sydney waited impatiently at the entrance to the alley, shifting from foot to foot, trying to blend in with her surroundings.  A rundown section of a once proud city, the gray walls melted into the gray snow on the ground; gray people shuffled by, heads down, anxious to be home out of the bitter cold.  Pursuing leads on Lazarey, she was scheduled to meet a contact.  A friend of a friend of a friend.  

"Sydney."  The voice was a soft whisper, softer than the snow lightly drifting downward.

"Mom?" asked Sydney, whirling around in astonishment.  

"Sydney," said her mother reprovingly, aggrieved at this lapse in protocol, "I don't suppose that you could look straight forward and pretend to not be talking to me?"  

"Oh. Right."  Sydney pretended to admire the architecture of the aging apartment building next to her.  "Nice hair."

Irina gave a quiet snort.  Clad mostly in rags, her long straggly white hair hung in tangles about her face.  She was rummaging through a nearby garbage can.  "How are you?" she asked her daughter, her tone concerned.

"Fine," Sydney lied.  "Not fine," she admitted with a sigh after receiving a sharp glance from her mother.  "I can't remember anything that happened for the past two years.    And everything is so different. . . ," her voice trailed off.

"Different, how?"  Irina focused on a particularly shiny can, struggling to keep herself from hugging her daughter.

"Sloane is good.  Vaughn is married."  Sydney swallowed.  "To someone else.  I don't know who to trust."

"Your father?"

"He was in solitary for a year.  He's…it was pretty tough, I think.  He won't really talk about it."  Studying the stonework, Sydney missed the slight tremor as her mother lifted a tattered glove from the trash and carefully placed it in her pocket.

"I see," said Irina evenly.

"Mom?  Did you see me at all over the last two years?"

"Why do you ask?" Irina stalled.

"I sent a letter to Sloane.  In a code that only you would know.  Dad says you taught it to him when you were working together."

"You sent a letter to Sloane?" repeated Irina.  "How curious."  She dropped the glove from her pocket onto the ground.  "Inside that glove is a letter you mailed to me.  I couldn't decipher it.  I think it's an SD-6 code."

"Thanks.  But you still didn't answer my question."

Irina was silent for several minutes before finally replying.  "Yes, Sydney, I saw you.  You went by the name of Julia Thorne."

_Surreptitiously Irina crept forward through the underbrush, careful not to make a sound.  Her target was rumored to be a professional assassin, and any mistake on Irina's part could be fatal for one or both of them.  An outcome that was not acceptable.  She reached the edge of the clearing, giving her a clear view of the red sports car parked by the side of the road, and pulled out her field glasses.  Her target came rapidly into focus – 5'11", long dark hair, athletic build.  Her father's ears; her mother's eyes.   _

_Irina briefly lowered the binoculars to impatiently brush away the tears that inconveniently blocked her view.  She had guessed right – Julia Thorne and Sydney were the same person. Sydney was alive. She picked up her cell phone to call Jack, imagining his reaction, then paused and crouched lower as a black sedan approached.  A meet._

_She put the binoculars back up to her eyes and watched as a small man emerged from the sedan.  Her chest tightened as her face contorted in rage.  Sloane.  She prayed Sydney would kill – her mind froze.  Sydney was* hugging* Sloane?  What the h*ll was going on?_

"You *did* see me.  I knew my name was Julia Thorne, but what was I doing?  Why did I send letters?  Why would I have sent a letter to *Sloane*?"  Sydney's questions tumbled over each other; Irina had no doubt that there were hundreds more bottled up inside her daughter.

"Sydney," her mother said regretfully.  "Julia Thorne was a professional assassin.  One of the people she ran missions for was Sloane.  She. . . trusted him."

_Irina watched as Sydney and Sloane talked, waiting until Sloane departed.  Carefully she picked her way down to the red car, reaching it just before Sydney climbed in.  _

_"Sydney."_

_Sydney froze, her hand on the door of the car.  Irina's antennae started quivering, and she sensed rather than saw a knife slip into Sydney's hand._

_Sydney turned around slowly.  There was no flicker of recognition in her eyes._

_"Who the f*ck are you?"_

_"Sydney?" Irina's brow furrowed.  "I'm your mother."_

_"My mother died when I was six.  And my name's not Sydney.  How much did you see?" asked Sydney threateningly.  _

_"Would you like me to call you Julia?" asked Irina carefully.  "Your father will be so relieved that you're alive."_

_"My father?  My father knows I'm alive."_

_"He does?" hissed Irina ominously._

_"He just left.  But you know that, don't you?  You were watching us."  Julia began advancing towards Irina._

_"Arvin Sloane?" asked Irina aghast.  "You think that scum is your father?"  Warily she backed away from Julia._

_"Do. not. insult. my. father." replied Julia in a low snarl.  And without warning she had leapt._

_Had Julia wished to kill her that day, Irina had no doubt she would have died.  Instead, Julia stepped back, wiping her blade on her pants leg as Irina stared at her left forearm, watching a long thin line of blood form. The speed and fluidity of Julia's movement bespoke a lifetime of training.  Russian training._

_"Next time it will be your throat."  Stiffening in shock, Irina remained immobile as Julia drove away.  That look in Julia's eyes.  She'd seen it before.  _

_Sark.  An emptiness of emotion, an absolute indifference to pain and suffering in others, a lack of remorse that was chilling.  A programmed response from childhood.  Because his childhood had been different in a very special way._

_Irina staggered to the nearest tree, her knees suddenly weak. *Her* daughter?  Had the KGB tapped her daughter as well for their version of Project Christmas?  A program that was darker, more focused than anything the CIA had envisaged.  Developed to create a generation of ruthless killers in deep cover.  _

_No, she shook her head numbly. She couldn't be so lucky.  It had been Sloane.  The specter of an innocent 6 year old, face reproachful, rose up in front of her. "Oh, god Sydney, I'm so sorry," she choked out.  If she hadn't left her….if she hadn't passed on the Project Christmas research…if she'd killed Sloane when she had the chance…she turned and retched into the grass, emptying herself until all that was left was dry heaves._

_And what would she tell Jack?  She stared at the phone in her hand.  'I've found our daughter and she's a cold-blooded assassin?'_

"I *trusted* Sloane?" repeated Sydney, bewildered.  "What about Lazarey?  How does he fit in?"

"What do you know about Lazarey?" asked Irina sharply.

"I found his hand.  I – Julia – left clues for how to find it with the letter she mailed to Sloane.  I think it's important, somehow, but I don't know how."

Irina nodded slowly.  "Lazarey's important," she affirmed.  "He's the one that - ," she paused.  

"The one that what?"

Irina stared pensively at the trash bin in front of her.  "That's about all, I think."

"About all you're going to tell me?  Or about all the gems you're going to find in that rubbish bin?" asked Sydney waspishly.

"Both," said Irina unperturbed.  "Julia clearly wanted you to figure this out for yourself.  She trusted you, even if she trusted none of us in the end.  And she wants you to talk to Lazarey.  I'll arrange it for you, and let you know the details.  It will take me a little time.  Andrian is a trifle gun-shy these days."

"He's alive?"

"Despite Julia's best efforts.  Very resilient, is our Dr. Lazarey."

"So, I just wait to hear from you again?"

Irina nodded.

"But," Sydney began desperately, "Mom, what if I need you?" 

"You have your father, Sydney.  Trust him," said Irina wearily.  She turned away from the stricken look in Sydney's eyes, heart tightening.  Against her better judgment, she volunteered, "If you *must* reach me, call this number," and quickly recited a 12 digit string.  "Leave a message, and I'll get back to you.  But Sydney," she added warningly, "this number is for you only.  Not your father."

Sydney looked puzzled.  "But I thought you and Dad -,"

"It was only a business arrangement, Sydney.  Nothing. . . more."  

Sydney opened her mouth, prepared to argue, but halted as she realized Irina was shuffling away, hauling her finds with her in a battered wooden cart.  She gave a sniff of disgust.  She could scarcely go chasing after a tramp and maintain her cover.  Besides, it would be pointless.  Truth, she thought reflectively to herself, took time.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24 

"Dad, we need to talk."  Jack's face didn't change as Sydney's whispered words registered.  She continued to walk past him to another terminal in the bullpen, having just flown in from St. Petersburg.  Ten minutes later he stood up and casually strolled away, making his way down the corridor in the direction of the men's room.  

Sydney's phone rang 2 minutes later.  "Interview room 4."  

"Oh, that's so sweet!" she cooed into the phone.  "But I already have plans for Friday.  Thanks for asking."  She waited a moment.  "You too.  Bye."  She put down the phone and continued to work on her mission summary.  Five minutes later she had joined her father.

She raised her eyebrows at him and he nodded.  Surveillance protection in place.  "Dad!" she burst out, no longer able to contain herself.  "I met Mom."

"You WHAT?"

"I. met. Mom."

"How?"  The word flew out of Jack's mouth like a bullet.

"She found me," replied Sydney, looking curiously at her father.  He didn't appear to be sharing her enthusiasm.  "When I was collecting intel on Lazarey."

"Do you have another meeting set up with her?  Or a way to contact her?"

Sydney paused, remembering her mother's warning.  "No."

Jack's eyes narrowed slightly, but he let it pass.  "What did she want?"

"She had another letter for me.  And she told me about Julia."

Jack paled.  "Sydney, whatever she told you - ,"

"She didn't tell me much we didn't already know," interrupted Sydney, oblivious, too focused on her mother's words.  "Except that she confirmed that she'd known me during the two years I was missing.  And," she added in a small voice, "that I'd been an assassin.  Some of my missions were for Sloane."

"Sloane?" her father repeated numbly.  Of course.  Irina and Sloane had been working together.  Since Panama.  He'd been played all the way through.

"Yes," replied Sydney unhappily.  

"What else?"

"Lazarey's alive.  She's going to try to set up a meeting."

"Alive?" asked Jack, puzzled.  "But that means…,"

"Yeah.  The hand.  Ew," replied Sydney, wrinkling her nose.  "But she said that Lazarey was important.  That Julia had probably left that hand because she would have wanted me to meet him."

"Is that all the information your mother gave you?" he asked cautiously.  Nothing about Project Christmas.  Nothing about activation.  Why? he wondered.  And then he realized.  Because she couldn't tell Sydney about his part in her missing two years without telling her about hers.  Something they shared, he thought bitterly.

"Yes.  Except for the letter. Mom thought it was an old SD-1 code, but I don't recognize it."  

She pulled out the letter and handed it to her father. He scanned the note and nodded.  "Yes.  It's a version used during the early days of the Alliance.  Only a handful of people would know it."

"But it's in my handwriting again."

"Yes," said Jack reluctantly.  "It confirms that you worked with Sloane sometime during those two years."

"Oh," replied Sydney, swallowing hard.  "Can you translate it?"

"And if I do?  And it's another set of coordinates?"

"Then I'll go find what's there," said Sydney determinedly.

"Sydney -," Jack began.

"Enough, Dad.  I appreciate your concern, but you're either with me or against me on this.  I have to find out what happened.  And I think Julia was trying to tell me."

"It's just that -,"

". . . or I'll ask Sloane to translate it."

Jack grimaced.  "Promise me that you'll let me help you."

"Of course.  Who else would I trust?"

**

He'd always hated Graz.  Sydney's second note had been the address of a hotel in Graz, where Julia had stored a vial in a safe deposit box.  He winced as he recalled their opening the box together, only to see Sark and Allison on the other side.  The subsequent chase, and fight to the death with Allison, had been devastating to Sydney.  Jack had had his hands full with Sark; thank god that Sydney had been so quick with that knife.  Stabbing her best friend's clone to death – Jack shuddered.  Sydney had sobbed most of the way home on the plane.

And now that they had the vial?  And knew it was Rambaldi's bodily fluid?  Absolutely no further in solving Julia's puzzle.  Jack glanced at his safe.  The 3rd letter was fine just where it was.

His priority was to find Irina.

**

"Yes, Mr. Bristow, that's what I said," Jack heard over his cell phone. "The codes were 'Bd6' and 'Qf3'."  The tone of Jack's contact was as baffled as ever.  "Should I wait to hear from you?"

"Yes," said Jack testily, and hung up, running his hand through his hair as he scanned the desk in front of him.  It was piled high with research on Irina.  Every known location and alias she had used for the past 24 years.  He didn't really have time to play chess with the Abbe.  He was engaged in a real-life battle of wits with Irina.  On the other hand, it was comforting to maintain at least one relationship in which he didn't have to watch every step.

Well, that wasn't quite true, he chuckled to himself.  The Abbe would ruthlessly exploit any mistake he made.  He took a deep breath and focused on the chessboards in his head.  The queen sacrifice in the last game had been a brilliant move, if he did say so himself.  He'd checkmated the Abbe; they were now even.  He reflected with scorn on his unwillingness to use that tactic previously.  Live and learn.

He quickly reviewed the Abbe's move in the second game.  The board was still developing, but the Abbe was putting a lot of pressure on the center.  'c6' thought Jack to himself.  That should slow him down. 

The first game was more troubling.  Jack mulled it over as he unconsciously straightened the maps on his desk.  He sensed a noose starting to close, and suspected the Abbe was trying to trap him into _zugzwang_ – where any move he took would be disastrous.  It was a beloved strategy of the Abbe's, and Jack had lost at least four games over the past year when he'd stumbled into one of the Abbe's traps.  'e4', he decided.  He'd try to gain time by attacking the knight.  

He called back his contact. " 'e4' and 'c6'," he calmly instructed.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Bristow."  Jack leaned back in his chair, momentarily at peace.

**

"So, you and your Dad seem to be doing well."

"Yeah," said Sydney.  "Weird, isn't it?  I spent so much of my life resenting him, and now he's the one person that I know I can count on.  All I can think of is the time I missed – we missed together."

Eric Weiss took a long pull on the beer in his hand.  He leaned against Sydney's kitchen counter, watching her fix a late lunch.  "Could be wrong," said Weiss diffidently, "but I suspect your father feels the same way.  Like he's got a second chance."  He rubbed the side of his neck reflectively.  "I can identify with him," he added ruefully.

Sydney took a knife in her hand to cut the sandwiches then paused, bewildered, as she watched herself unconsciously checking its balance.  She knew without thinking that she'd need to lower her grip ¼ of an inch for the knife to fly true.  She shivered.

"You okay, Syd?"

Her dreams. . . "Fine," she said brightly.  "Lunch is ready.  What were you saying?" she added, changing the subject swiftly.

"Do you pay attention to anything I say?" asked Weiss in a pained voice as he helped carry the food to the table.  "I was talking about your dad.  Who, by the way, still scares the sh*t out of me."

"Oh, come on, Weiss, he's just a big teddy bear," teased Sydney.

"Some teddy bear.  Look at what he's done in the last 3 months alone.  First there was Simon -,"  
"Simon?  What about Simon?"

Weiss's face colored.  "Oh, crap, Syd, don't tell me he didn't tell you about that."

"No," said Sydney firmly.  "But you will."  She pulled his lunch away from him.

"Syd, you don't need to be like that," said Weiss hastily, reaching out for the plate.  "I'm sure he wouldn't mind.  You knew that Jack was going to try to contact Simon to get some more background on those two years?"  

Sydney nodded.  "But I thought he hadn't been able to make contact."

"Well, he did.  Because he was freelancing, he needed some help.  I helped him simulate the wire transfers for the payment."

"*You*?"

Weiss looked affronted.  "Thanks a lot.  Do you want to hear about this or not?"  Sydney nodded apologetically.  "I'm not sure exactly what happened.  All I know is, two people walked into that building, and only one walked out.  Your father.  And he was pretty damn angry."

"Did he say anything?"

"Only that his cover had been blown in some way.  I guess he didn't have a chance to get any information, so he didn't bother mentioning it to you."

"I'm sure you're right, Weiss," said Sydney thoughtfully.  "But there's more, isn't there?

"Well, there's the rescue, of course.  Before the NSC could extract your memories."  Weiss was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"And?"

"And what?" asked Weiss nervously.

"You're a terrible liar, Weiss.  Just tell me."  Sydney smiled sweetly, but Weiss had the distinct feeling she was baring her teeth.

"B-but Syd, we're not even *sure* it was your father," stammered Weiss.  "He denied it, and his story was perfectly logical. . . ,"

"Oh, for heaven's sake Weiss, just spit it out," said Sydney in exasperation.

"Perez," admitted Weiss.

"Perez?" asked Sydney.  "Simon's gang?"

"Yeah," said Weiss miserably.  "He was captured in Mexico City, and offered information on you in exchange for his freedom.  Vaughn and Lauren went down to interview him."  Weiss licked his lips.  "He was dead before they got there."  

"And why do they think it was my father?"

Weiss just looked her.

"I see," said Sydney slowly.  

**

"Dad?"

"Hello, Sydney."

"Yes.  Got a second?  Can I come over?"

Jack paused only for a moment.  "Of course, sweetheart.  When do you think you'll be here?"

"I'm sitting in my car in front of your apartment."

**

"How long have you been there?" asked Jack, opening the door.

"A while."

Jack studied her profile, noticing the rigid set of her face.  He sighed.  "Will you tell me, or should I guess?"

"Is there anything that you're hiding from me, Dad?" Sydney blurted out.

"Yes.  Of course," said Jack steadily.  His heart froze.

Sydney shook her head with annoyance.  "Don't treat me like a child.  I don't mean things that I'm not cleared to know about missions you ran 15 years ago.  I mean are you hiding information that would be useful to me in finding out what happened over the past two years?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Goddammit, Dad!" said Sydney heatedly.  "Don't answer my question with another question.  I know about Simon.  I know about Perez.  You've been intentionally keeping information from me.  Now answer the question."

Jack opened his mouth and closed it again, not knowing where to start.  "Sydney," he finally began, voice strangled, "I -,"

"Because I've figured out for myself that there's a third letter," she interjected furiously.

Jack looked at her in stunned relief.  "You have?" he croaked.

"A letter to Sloane.  Written in a code that only you and Mom knew.  A letter to Mom.  Written in a code that only you and Sloane knew."

"Oh."

"Yeah.  'Oh'.  Begs the question, doesn't it?  Where's the third letter?  To you, in a code that only Sloane and Mom would know?"  Sydney gave her father a hard stare.

Jack began to breathe again.  "I have it," he admitted.  This he could deal with.  "I'm sorry, sweetheart.  The last two letters almost got you killed.  And we've learned nothing.  I was reluctant to put you through that again."

"Read my lips.  I. Am. Not. A. Child.  Don't you think I should have had the chance to decide that on my own?"

Jack looked shame-faced.  "Come with me."  

Sydney followed Jack into his study, waiting impatiently as he pulled the letter from his safe.  She looked at the key envelope critically, noting the sealed flap.  "What's inside?" she asked shortly.

"A note," he confessed.  "In a code I don't recognize.  But that Neil Caplan says resembles something your mother and Sloane used."

Sydney gave him a disgusted look.  "And to think that I wondered why Julia didn't trust any of you.  She sent three notes so that no two of you could ally yourselves and solve the puzzle without me.  It's curious that the one person that couldn't be trusted to deliver his was you."

"Sydney, it's just –,"

"Forget it, Dad.  I don't want to talk about it right now.  I'm not sure I'd believe what you said anyway."

"What are you going to do?" Jack asked, subdued.  If she had reacted this angrily to the letter, how would she feel when she learned what he had done to her?

"I need to get this deciphered, don't I?  Narrows down my options considerably – it's either Sloane or Mom."

Jack stared at her for a moment, mind racing.  "Sloane," he said decisively.  "I forbid you to see your mother for this.  We know we can trust Sloane."

"You WHAT?  You *forbid* me to get Mom's help on this?" repeated Sydney in fury, eyes sparking.  "Have you been listening to me *at all*?  If I need your advice, I'll ask."  Sydney turned on her heel and stormed out the door.

Jack watched her go, his expression hooded.

**

*Zugzwang:  

A German term, meaning a compulsion to move, or making a move even though it hurts you…like strangling yourself.

--from A Dictionary of Modern Chess, by Horton


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25 (Damascus, Syria) 

Sydney peered cautiously into the shadows as she approached the Souq al-Hamadiyyeg, the old city's main covered market.  Her phone call to her mother had been an easy choice; her instincts told her what her father denied.  Irina Derevko could be trusted; Sloane could not.

Sydney frowned in consternation as she considered her parents.  For a while there she had been so sure that…she sighed.  You needed a watch with a second hand to keep track of what was going on with her parents.

**  

Irina scrutinized her daughter as she approached, scanning for a tail. With Sloane's five million dollar bounty on her head, the risk she was taking by meeting a second time with Sydney was incalculable.

But then, so was her love for Sydney.  Every step in their relationship – from conception onwards – had been fraught with danger.  It gave her, she admitted, something to live for.

**

Jack adjusted his night vision goggles and lay flat on the roof.  He had a clear view of the market.  Carefully he tracked Sydney, her head wrapped in the traditional hijab, as she approached the almost-deserted stalls.  He scanned the area, but as yet had seen no sign of Irina.

Jack's mood was bleak as he watched his daughter pick her way through the day's debris.  How easily they'd fallen back into old habits – Sydney not trusting him, his manipulating her to lead him to her mother.  There had never been a more sure-fire way to get Sydney to do something than to order her not to.  A stab of loneliness pierced him and his hands tightened around his binoculars as he contemplated how he'd gotten to this point.  *Who* had gotten him to this point.  He'd follow Sydney to Irina.  And then they'd finish this.

**

Sloane listened carefully as the team trailing Jack reported in by sat phone.  Jack was in Syria, and appeared to be tracking Sydney.  Sloane cursed.  He should have thought of that; of course Irina would be in touch with Sydney as well.

He leaned over and opened his top desk drawer, gazing longingly at the picture inside.  A much younger version of himself.  A smiling Emily.  And a laughing, 8 year old Julia.  She had not laughed much back then.  Cursed with dysfunctional parents – a mother who had abandoned her, a father who ignored her – she had seemed happiest when staying with the Sloanes.  He missed her.

And those same, dysfunctional parents were attempting to interfere again, he thought savagely to himself.  Julia had understood the importance of what he was doing, the importance of Rambaldi's work.  Irina had somehow managed to reverse the effect before Julia had completed her assignment; she needed to be stopped permanently.

**

"Mom?" Sydney whispered.

Irina detached herself from the shadows.  "Here," came the response.  "Were you followed?"

"No, I'm sure I wasn't followed," said Sydney positively.  "I need your help."

"Anything."

"I received a third letter.  One that Julia mailed to Dad."

"Don't tell me," said Irina wryly.  "In a code that only Sloane and I can read?"

"Yes.  You were right.  Julia didn't trust any of you completely, did she?"

"No," said her mother.  "With good reason, I think."  Irina took the page that Sydney offered and swiftly decoded it, handing it back without a second glance.  She had, of course, memorized it as she was decoding.  "How's your father?"

Sydney was silent for a moment.  "Something's wrong.  More than getting out of solitary.  If it was someone else, I'd say he was upset, but with Dad you never know."

"He's visited Sloane, hasn't he?"

"Sloane?  If I didn't know better, I'd say he and Dad were frat brothers," Sydney said with disgust.  "I think Dad's given up trusting his instincts.  He just looks at the data in front of him."  She shot a glance at her mother.  "He doesn't trust you anymore," she blurted out.

"No," Irina murmured.  "He wouldn't."

_"Irina?"_

_"Arvin," hissed Irina into her phone.  "You b*stard."_

_"I gather you met my daughter, Julia, the other day."_

_"*Your* daughter?  You perverted -," _

_"Save the pleasantries, Irina.  Neither of you have earned the right to be her parent."_

_Irina took a deep breath.  "Jack will rip your heart out.  If I don't get to you first."_

_"Ah," said Sloane.  "A bit of a problem, there, I'm afraid."_

_Irina was silent.  Of course Sloane hadn't called just to gloat._

_"You'd have to agree that Julia is pretty talented at what she does.  The Russian Project Christmas was so much more focused than ours.  World class assassin."_

_"Where is she now, Arvin?" asked Irina with foreboding._

_"Well, it's odd that you ask.  She's on a flight to LA, actually.  It touches down in 30 minutes.  You see, she has a new assignment."_

_"Who?" Irina managed to choke out._

_"Jack."_

_Irina's hand tightened on the phone.  "Jack can take care of himself."_

_"Yes," said Sloane thoughtfully, "he can.  Of course, Jack's usual solution to taking care of himself is to take care of his assailant."_

_"You wouldn't risk Sydney like that," Irina snapped._

_"Julia, Irina, Julia.  And I'm not, really.  Jack won't pull the trigger if he thinks it's Sydney."_

_"But she won't recognize him!  She won't stop!"_

_"Correct," he said flatly._

_Irina closed her eyes.  Could she call Jack in time and warn him?  Would he believe her?  Why hadn't she told him right away?  'Trying to fix it yourself,' said a snide voice inside her head.  'Afraid he'd just add this to the list of your sins.' She cursed herself for trying to protect their fragile relationship.  It had always been doomed._

_"You could call Jack," said Sloane, echoing her thoughts.  "But then you'd have to explain that Sydney was alive, that you'd known and hadn't told him, that her Christmas conditioning had been modified based on the intel you stole from him, and that he needed to go into deep hiding to avoid seeing his daughter.  How far do you think you'd get through the conversation before he hung up?"_

_"You're wrong.  I've already told him," she lied._

_"Please, Irina.  Give me some credit.  Jack," Sloane pointed out condescendingly, "is in LA.  If you'd told him, he'd be with *you* now.  Looking for his precious daughter that he could never be bothered with when she was growing up."_

_"What. do. you. want?" Irina snarled._

_"Julia's scheduled to check in with me when she lands.  If, before that time, I have on my desk incontrovertible proof that Jack was meeting with you covertly, I'll tell her to come back home.  Otherwise," Irina could sense Sloane's mental shrug over the phone, "I won't."_

_"Why are you doing this?"_

_"I need Jack out of the way for a while.  He's a good friend, if sometimes misguided; I'd prefer to do it temporarily." Sloane's voice grew cold.  "But don't confuse my sentimentalism with weakness, Irina.  If I have to choose between Jack and Julia, it will be Julia.  In the next 3 hours, Jack *will* be taken care of, one way or another."_

_"You're afraid he can reverse it, aren't you?" she challenged, fighting the coldness that was growing inside her.  "His research would-,"_

_"Julia has already eliminated the one person that could have reversed her activation."  Irina's eyebrows shot up as she glanced across the room to where Lazarey sat, calmly finishing lunch.  She made a note to find out if anything had happened to Lazarey's body double.  "Perhaps Jack could also do it, eventually.  I don't plan to give him the chance."_

_"So your plan is to just lock him up in prison?  After what happened the last time?  You heartless sonova-,"_

_"25 minutes, Irina.  Your choice.  And the evidence, by the way, should highlight the, er, depth of your current relationship."_

_"Looking for tips?" Irina responded nastily._

_"Good bye, Irina."_

Sydney read the ache in her mother's eyes.  "Is there a reason why he shouldn't trust you?"

"No, but he thinks there is."

"Why don't you just explain it to him?" demanded Sydney, exasperated.  Honestly.

Irina rolled her eyes.  "It's a little more complicated than that, Sydney.  Trust is…easily lost in our relationship.  And very hard to gain back.  And truth -,"

"Yeah, yeah.  Truth takes time," finished Sydney with asperity.  

"Correct," said her mother with a pained smile.  "Enough about your father and I.  How are you?"

"Not great," Sydney admitted.  "I… I've been having dreams.  Awful dreams."

"Julia had dreams as well," Irina observed.  "Describe yours."

Sydney grimaced.  "Dreams in which Sloane is my father.  I'm," her face twisted in revulsion," *hugging* him.   Dreams in which I'm just a child, but I'm killing animals with a knife."  

"It sounds like you're starting to see glimpses of Julia's life."

"But that's insane!  Are you saying Julia thought Sloane was her *father*?"  She paused for a moment, her face ashen in the darkness.  "He's…not, is he Mom?" she asked in a small voice.

Irina's eyes snapped together in irritation.  "Wash your mouth out with soap, Sydney.  Of course not."

 Sighing with relief, Sydney relaxed slightly.  "Sorry.  But how could I see Julia when she was a child?"

Irina shook her head decisively.  "I don't know.  I do know that Julia started having dreams about you towards the end.  They…disturbed her.  She saw another side of herself that she hadn't suspected existed."

Sydney exhaled in frustration.  "You know more than you're saying, don't you?  You just won't tell me."  Try as she might, it still sounded faintly like a whine.

Irina's eyes glimmered in the darkness.  "All of us know parts of the truth, Sydney.  Me.  Your father.  Sloane.  Lazarey.  Julia wanted you to discover the whole truth.  Your truth."

"But how -,"

"Start with Lazarey.  I was able to contact him; he'll be in touch with you in the next week.  He was not…enthusiastic, but he'll comply."

Sydney nodded miserably.  "I need to go."  Impulsively she stepped forward and hugged her mother.  "Be careful," she whispered.

"You too," Irina murmured, holding her tight.  Sydney turned and walked away, head down.  Irina's eyes followed her longingly before she turned to make her escape.

**

Irina moved swiftly through the darkened alley, changing her clothing as she moved, transforming herself from a middle-aged Syrian housewife hoping to glean the final bargains at the market to a stylish Egyptian tourist.  Lipstick…earrings….silk scarf…  she slapped her neck in annoyance at a mosquito, then pulled her hand back in horror.

A tranq dart.  _"I'm sure I wasn't followed." _Really, she thought hazily, slumping to the ground.  She loved her daughter, but at times she was the worst. spy. ever.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26 (Damascus, Syria)  
  
"Sir, Bristow's moving in on Derevko. Should we take her out now?"  
  
Sloane pondered his team leader's request for a moment. He'd ordered the sniper to hold off while Irina was talking to Sydney. It would be traumatic for her to see her mother killed in front of her eyes and he was not, after all, a monster. So Bristow and Derevko would be together? He had a better idea. One that solved all of his problems.  
  
"No. Stand down the sniper. Track the two of them and update me with their location. Stay well away; I don't want them alerted. As long as you keep an eye on those photos, you won't lose either one of them."  
  
He hung up, then placed a second call. "Director Lindsey, please. Arvin Sloane. Yes, I'll wait."  
  
"Arvin. What can I do for you today?" came Lindsey's voice over the phone several moments later.  
  
"It's what I can do for you, Robert," replied Sloane smugly. "I'm sure you've been concentrating on other matters, but I wondered how your surveillance of Bristow was progressing?"  
  
"The reports I've received suggest he's staying pretty close to home. No contact yet with Derevko, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time," replied Lindsey, puzzled. "Why?"  
  
"It's come to my attention that Jack Bristow is meeting with Irina Derevko in Damascus as we speak."  
  
"He's WHAT?" spluttered Lindsey in fury.  
  
"I'm always anxious to help the NSC, as you know. My guess is that they'll be together about an hour. Would you, by chance, like the coordinates?"  
  
**  
  
Irina's first waking emotion was surprise. Why couldn't she hold her head still? This was quickly followed by awareness - that she was being roughly slapped into consciousness. Her third and dominant emotion, though, was alarm. For the person slapping her was. . . Jack.  
  
Gun in hand, the look in his eyes chilled her to the bone. "Hello, Irina," he said stepping back. "Missed me?" he added savagely. "Sorry I didn't send you a postcard. From prison," he spat. Irina jerked her hands, only to find them tied to the chair.  
  
"Jack -,"  
  
He pistol-whipped her across the mouth. "Shut. up." he said through clenched teeth. "No. more. lies." A thin trickle of blood ran down her chin. The sight of it appeared to sober him, and his body shook as he attempted to regain control. "Tonight you're answering questions. Not asking them. Understand?" he said in a quieter tone.  
  
Irina nodded, watching him carefully. This wasn't exactly the way she would have chosen to tell him what happened, but she'd make the best of it. She prayed Jack had not been followed.  
  
Jack pulled the two photos of out of his jacket. "Did you give these to Sloane?"  
  
"Yes, but -,"  
  
Jack slapped her across the face, hard. "Yes or no only. No excuses. Did you give these photos to Sloane?" he repeated.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Knowing that I would go to prison?"  
  
"Yes." Jack closed his eyes and shuddered. When he opened them, his expression was empty, drained of all emotion.  
  
"Did you know that Sydney was alive before you received my message?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Did you stop her from coming to see me in LA?"  
  
Irina paused.  
  
"I said, -"  
  
"Yes."   
  
Jack took a step back, breathing heavily. Irina watched as the rage mounted within him until he could no longer contain it. "What the hell have you done to Sydney?" he finally roared.  
  
"Is that a yes or no question?"  
  
Jack's hand rose to strike her again, but stopped in mid-air. "F*ck it," he said, turning around and reaching into his bag. He pulled out a syringe and a bottle of a clear solution. Methodically he filled the syringe and tapped out the air bubbles.   
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Pentothal. Three strikes, Irina. You're out. Let's see what's really on your mind."  
  
"No, Jack. Please."   
  
"Please?" he mimicked, rooting around in his bag for a tourniquet. "Scared of the truth, Irina?"  
  
"Jack, goddammit, no!" hissed Irina, trying to curl away from him as he tightened it on her arm.  
  
Jack reached for the syringe.  
  
"Are you sure you're ready for the truth? How about Sydney? Have you told her the truth lately?" Irina's eyes blazed with anger. Surreptitiously her right foot loosened the heel on her left shoe.  
  
Jack's lips tightened. "Enough."  
  
"Have you told her she was activated, Jack? That her loving father created a tool for anyone with the right trigger phrase? That she's a f*cking robot in disguise?" Irina spit out. The heel was off now.  
  
"I said, 'Enough,'" yelled Jack. "Everything I've done I did because I loved her."  
  
"What a comfort that will be to her," said Irina with a curl to her lip, goading him onwards. With a shout Jack came at her again, arm raised. Shoving herself backwards, Irina twisted upwards and stabbed him in the thigh with the needle protruding from her left shoe.  
  
Jack staggered back, hand clasped over his leg. "You b*tch," he swore, starting to stagger drunkenly. Irina watched as he slowly and unceremoniously collapsed to the floor.  
  
"I'm sorry, Jack," said Irina, beginning to work herself free. "Truth takes time. Not sodium pentothal."  
  
**  
  
Irina scanned the building where Jack had interrogated her utilizing the night vision goggles that he had so kindly donated. She swept the surrounding area, pausing thoughtfully at the van parked one block away. She zoomed in and watched as the driver lifted a sat phone to his ear. As she had suspected. Arvin was tracking Jack to find her. She exhaled in relief. That had been close.  
  
She cursed softly under her breath. She didn't enjoy cat-and-mouse games. Particularly when she was the mouse. But much as she would have liked to reverse the game and pursue Sloane, she couldn't take the risk. The information she carried in her head was too important. The release phrase for Julia, if Sloane activated her again.  
  
She stood up, preparing to depart, when a movement caught her eye. She snapped the goggles to her eyes again and chuckled. Oh, very funny. The police were arriving. Someone must have complained about the noise. That would spike Sloane's guns. She turned towards the van and watched as it gunned its engine and departed. She smiled as she imagined Jack's reaction. 


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27 

Lindsey removed the ringing cell phone from his suit coat.  It was a number that was reserved for…sensitive…contacts.  That could not be traced.  "Wait," he said abruptly, as he waved his assistant out of his office.  "Yes?"

"Director Lindsey.  General Kanaan."  Kanaan was head of Syrian intelligence.  And a man that owed Lindsey several favors.

"Have you picked up the packages?"

"Only one package.  The man.  The woman escaped before we arrived.  Would you like him deposited at your embassy?"

Lindsey picked up a paperweight and hurled it across the office in frustration, where it crashed with a satisfying _thunk_ against the wall.

"Director Lindsey?"

"No," replied Lindsey, deciding.  "I think that this is something that…you might be better able to handle for me.  But it will take discretion on your part."

"Of course."

"The man you have apprehended has been conspiring with a known terrorist.  He has some information we need.  Our…limited means of persuasion have so far proven ineffective."

"Ah.  I understand."

"I thought you might.  Perhaps it would be best, given the circumstances, if you could limit the number of individuals that could make a visual ID of the prisoner.  We don't want word leaking out about our capture."

"Consider it handled."

"Excellent.  I'll fly out immediately, and brief you when I arrive.  I want to be the first one to interview him.  And General?  Let's just keep this between the two of us."

**

Irina shifted positions impatiently, watching and waiting for Jack to emerge from the building.  What was taking so long?  The sedative dosage in her heel was only enough to keep him out for 15-20 minutes. It was folly to remain here where she was, but she could not resist the temptation to see him just one more time.  A large number of police officers had entered the building; he'd probably had a lot of explaining to do.  

The adrenaline rush from her capture and escape had worn off, and with it any satisfaction over besting her husband.  In its place despair settled, like a fine mist.  The rage and pain in his face haunted her; it bespoke of an opportunity lost, perhaps forever.  It was both everything she had prayed for, in those months before she had found Sydney, and everything she had feared since.

How perfectly ironic that she needed Jack to believe her word after she'd lied to him so brilliantly for 10 years.  That he would need to believe she hadn't betrayed him _this_ time.  Perhaps…but no, she couldn't have risked the sodium pentothal.  Not with Sloane only minutes behind.  It would have to be Sydney.  And her pursuit for the truth.

Finally, she thought, seeing movement at the entrance to the building.  She zoomed in on the binoculars, trying to catch Jack, and froze.  His head was covered with a hood, his hands handcuffed in front of him.  Two policemen were dragging him towards a windowless van.  He struggled, and a third policeman clubbed him on the head with a rifle butt.  Irina watched in dismay as her husband's limp form was thrown into the back of the van and the door slammed behind him.

**

Jack awoke in the dark.  His head throbbed and the air was stifling; it took him several moments to realize that his head was covered in a burlap sack. After the first panicked breath, he forced himself to inhale slowly.  His arms stretched painfully above him, his handcuffs hooked to something he could not see, his toes barely scraping the floor.  He could hear cries of terror not far away.

Dear God, what had she done to him now?

**

Irina swore softly as her eyes ran over the outlines of the hulking shadow in front of her.  Tadmur Military prison.  Where prisoners went in, but never came out.  This was insanity.  Jack was a US citizen.  What was he doing here?

She rubbed her arms, trying to ease the ache from clinging onto the back of the van for more than three hours as it had rumbled towards its destination.  She had swallowed enough desert sand for a lifetime.  And that had been in the first five minutes.

What now?  She had absolutely nothing with her.  Whatever she had lifted from Jack had been left behind in her haste to intercept the van in the street.  She looked around.  Time to improvise.

**

"Robert?  Arvin here."  Sloane leaned back in the chair of his study at home.  

"Hello, Arvin," replied Lindsey warily.  He was seated on his plane, 30 minutes from touchdown in Syria.

"I just wanted to follow-up on your progress with Bristow and Derevko.  Wanted to make sure I'd been of assistance."  Derevko to execution, Bristow to prison, Julia to him.  And untraceable.  It was perfect.

Lindsey shifted uneasily.  "Actually, Arvin, I meant to call you.  Unfortunately, we were unable to apprehend either of them.  A shame."

Sloane's eyes narrowed.  "Yes.  A shame.  What happened?"

"It's unclear.  By the time the police arrived, they had both slipped away."

Sloane's face contorted in anger, but his voice over the telephone remained smooth.  "Perhaps next time," he said easily.  "Where are you, by the way?  Any chance you'll be in the neighborhood soon?  I thought we might have lunch."

"I'll be locked down here in Washington for a while, Arvin.  It's budget time.  You know how that is," lied Lindsey.

"Right.  Well, I'll let you know if I receive any other leads.  Goodbye, Robert."  Sloane hung up the phone, fingers drumming the table.  He picked the phone back up and dialed.  "Get me the GPS coordinates of this cell phone," he instructed, and rattled off a 12 digit number.

There was a pause at the other end of the phone.  "That's an NSC sat phone, sir."

"Your point?"

"It's the most secure form of telecommunications available.  It will take us a few minutes longer."

Sloane received his answer in 6 minutes.  Lindsey had been over Syria when he had received the phone call.  

**

How long had it been?  Two hours?  Twenty?  Jack had lost all feeling in his hands, and his arms and shoulders were in agony.  He appeared to be in a prison - the background noise was punctuated by the boots of patrolling guards, the clipped tones of interrogators, the screams for mercy from their victims, the pleas to Allah.  At one point the smell of burning flesh assaulted him; he controlled his nausea by reminding himself that retching into a hood was not a good plan.  

He rehearsed his cover – Ronald Jordan, a Canadian journalist – in his mind.  He had been in worse situations than this.  The cover was solid and, to his knowledge, he had broken no Syrian laws.  It was not particularly helpful to have been found unconscious with a gun, but he'd come up with something.  He just wanted to get it over with.

And when he got out he'd. . . . he didn't know what he'd do about Irina.  Numbly he reviewed what she'd told him.  Up until the end he'd harbored a faint prayer that he'd gotten it wrong, that she hadn't betrayed him.  His head slumped lower as he acknowledged the death of that hope; anguish washed over him.

He failed to notice that the noises around him had stopped.  

**

"That's right, Mr. Sloane.  Our Syrian contacts report that only one person was apprehended, a man.  He was taken directly to Tadmur prison."  

Sloane cursed.  Lindsey was an imbecile.  He'd lost Derevko and decided to let the Syrians sweat the information out of Jack.  In their own inimitable way.  Which meant Jack would probably be dead by the end of the week.

And how would he find Irina then?  The situation was unacceptable.  "Break him out," he ordered.

"Sir?"   Sloane's team leader started to sweat.  His team's specialty was tracking and elimination, not armed extraction.  

"Which one of those three one-syllable words was unclear?"

"Sir, I'm going to need some assistance.  At least 20 men.  Money.  Gear."

Sloane gritted his teeth.  "Fine.  You'll get whatever you need.  But I want him out within 36 hours."

**

Lindsey and the Syrian general made their way down the hallway towards Jack's cell.  Lindsey's hat was pulled down on his head and, incongruously in the Syrian desert, he wore a long trench coat.  Probably his idea of a disguise, thought the general to himself contemptuously.  "I've ordered all guards out of this section of the prison.  You won't be observed in or out," he assured Lindsey.  They stepped around an old cleaning woman, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor.

Entering Jack's cell, the general prodded him in the side.  "What's your name?" he demanded.

Finally, thought Jack.  "Ronald Jordan," he answered, throwing a quaver into his voice.  "Why have you -,"

"Is that the one?" the general asked Lindsey, ignoring Jack.

Lindsey looked triumphant, recognizing Jack's voice.  "Yes, that's the one.  Ronald Jordan."

Jack heard Lindsey's voice and his heart stopped.  _Sh*t_.  


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28  
  
"Congratulations, General. You've apprehended an enemy of freedom-loving people everywhere," intoned Lindsey, barely keeping the smirk out of his voice. "You'll find that this man is a pathological liar. He'll tell you anything - including that he works for our government. Please make sure your people are not influenced by these. . . fabrications."  
  
"Do not worry. We have methods to obtain the truth."  
  
"Yes, I believe you do," replied Lindsey with satisfaction "We need answers to three questions. First, and most important, where is Irina Derevko?"  
  
Jack tensed. He'd be damned if he was going to take the fall for her this time. It was high time he sacrificed his queen. His priority was protecting Sydney.  
  
". . . Second, what has Sydney Bristow been doing for the past two years? And finally, who assisted with Sydney's escape from NSC custody?"  
  
As the general jotted the questions down, Jack stared grimly at the inside of the hood. He might be willing to cough up Irina, but it would be a cold day in hell before he volunteered answers to the last two questions. And the implications if he didn't were clear. The situation had gotten very serious, very quickly.  
  
"Given the gravity of the situation, and our commitment to fight terror, we are more interested in obtaining the answers than in. . . well, than in this prisoner's well-being, to be honest. Your men may employ whatever means they deem appropriate."  
  
"Very well. We will begin immediately. The general handed Lindsey a small bag. "Here are the items we found on the prisoner. They may be helpful to you. As for the rest - you should have your answers by the end of this week."  
  
"Thank you. Now, if you don't mind," said Lindsey thoughtfully, "I think I'd like to interview the prisoner. Alone."  
  
The general inclined his head. It was not an unusual request. Sometimes these pursuits became. . . personal. "You have 15 minutes before the guards return. When you are done, return to the motor pool. I will instruct the drivers there to return you to Damascus." He turned and headed down the hallway, once more stepping around the hag scrubbing the floor.   
  
**  
  
Jack listened, alert, as the general left his cell. There was little doubt in his mind about what was to come next.  
  
"You've been a naughty boy, Jack," Lindsey purred softly, moving around the room so that Jack had to concentrate to determine where he was. "Leaving the country, meeting with Derevko. . . not to mention that little escapade breaking your daughter free."  
  
"Enough games, you b*stard. What do you want?" Jack spat, his hands twisting futilely against the handcuffs.   
  
"Newsflash, Bristow. The game's over for you. This is what happens when you try to screw with me," Lindsey gloated, still prowling. "But first, I have some unfinished business." Lindsey aimed and swung.  
  
Behind me, thought Jack. Kidneys. He prepared himself but was unable to restrain a groan as Lindsey's fist landed and a white streak of pain lanced through him. The next landed in his gut; as he struggled for air, two more rained onto to his jaw. Helpless and blind, Jack absorbed the blows. He tensed for the next one, but it didn't come.  
  
"You!" snarled Lindsey in fear, making it sound like an oath. Jack heard scuffling, a loud crack, and the sound of a body crumpling to the floor.  
  
"Just like you to be hanging around when there's work to be done," he heard in a familiar tone. "Can't I leave you alone for 5 minutes?"   
  
"Irina?" Jack's voice through the hood cracked in disbelief.  
  
He felt the pressure ease on his hands as she lowered the hook that had suspended him from the ceiling. He sagged to the ground in exhaustion. "Sloane's been tailing you to find me," she said tersely. "He must have called Lindsey." Irina swiftly untied the knot and removed his hood.  
  
Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light, he took several deep breaths. He found himself peering up at his wife, clothed head to toe in rags. "New style?" he asked, as she began massaging his hands to restore circulation.   
  
"Best I could do on short notice," she said, shrugging.   
  
He studied her hands gently moving over his, and swallowed. "Why did you come?" he blurted out.  
  
"Would you believe me if I told you?" asked Irina curiously, pressing handcuff keys into his hand.   
  
At that moment Jack's eye fell on the photographs, poking out of the bag the general had given to Lindsey. His face hardened. "No," he said flatly. "Truth won't take time with you, Irina. It will take a miracle."  
  
"Thought as much," replied Irina in a light tone, quickly turning her face so that he would miss the wistfulness in her eyes. "I'd like to stay and chat, but our last talk didn't inspire much confidence." She stood and took a last long look at her husband. "Take care of Sydney."  
  
"Irina wait, dammit!" called Jack as he heard her feet running down the hallway. He fumbled with the keys, cursing, but his nerveless fingers balked for several minutes before he could unlock the handcuffs. Stumbling to his feet he scanned the corridor, but it was empty.  
  
Bewildered, he shook his head. Yet another piece of data that made no sense. Turning back, he spied Lindsey sprawled on the floor, unconscious. Here, at last, was something he understood. His jaw tightened as he considered his options.  
  
**  
  
A short time later, a man emerged limping from the concealed entrance of Tadmur prison. Clad in an overcoat, with a hat pulled low on his head, he approached the motor pool and instructed the nearest driver to convey him to Damascus.  
  
**  
  
"All units are GO!" Sloane listened to the radio as messages flashed back and forth between his men. In short order, the facility was secure. Sloane checked his watch. 36 hours to the minute since the first phone call. He waited a moment more.  
  
"Red Leader, come in," crackled the radio.   
  
"Red Leader," responded Sloane.  
  
"Sir, we've found the prisoner, but there's a problem. You'd better come."  
  
Frowning, Sloane stepped out of the car and made his way into the prison, escorted by his bodyguards. What kind of problem?  
  
"Down here, sir." The team leader waved him down to the cell. Sloane stepped around a bucket and sponge that had been carelessly left in the hallway. His nose wrinkled at the smell - a combination of blood, urine, feces, sweat, and vomit. "I'm afraid he's dead."  
  
Sloane stood somberly as the lifeless, hooded body was lowered to the floor. He felt an unfamiliar tug of regret at the thought that Jack Bristow had died here in agony. Their relationship, both personal and professional, had spanned decades; while they had had their differences, the utter futility of his lonely death created an unexpected sense of loss. Professionally he scanned the abused corpse and catalogued the torture techniques that had been applied; crude, but effective. Only thirty-six hours. Jack's will had always been strong, and Arvin would have forecast that he would have lasted much longer. Perhaps the combination of solitary confinement and Irina's newest betrayal had finally broken him. Perhaps he had no longer cared.  
  
"Hang him back up," snapped Sloane crossly. "There's nothing we can do for him now." He turned to leave, pausing as first one, then the second shoe fell off the corpse as it was raised back into the air. Odd, that the shoes were too big. His forehead crinkled in thought. "Wait," he barked. He eyed the corpse more closely. "Take the hood off."  
  
The team leader reluctantly complied. "Put it back on," said Sloane, the corners of his mouth turning upward. He walked out of the prison feeling unaccountably lighter.  
  
He'd just paid his last respects to Robert Lindsey. 


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29 

_NSC DIRECTOR MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD_

 _"NSC Director Robert Lindsey, close confidant of the President, was reported missing by his plane crew 4 days ago in Damascus, Syria.  Last seen departing the airport with a local driver, the Director failed to return on schedule.  Despite an intensive search, no trace of him has been found.  General Ghazi Kanaan, head of Syrian military intelligence, assured the international community in a press conference yesterday that, despite Director Lindsey's failure to notify the Syrian government of his presence, every effort would be made to locate the individuals responsible.  The investigation is currently focusing on reports that Director Lindsey may have been abducted and murdered by elements of a radical Islamist. . . ,"_

Jack put down the paper and sipped his coffee, brooding.  No question about it.  His ability to end relationships far exceeded his ability to maintain them.  

Why the hell had Irina rescued him?  It was inconsistent with everything else he knew to be true.  With the facts.  There must be something she needed him for, he thought bitterly.  He couldn't *wait* to find out what it might be this time

Sydney had barely acknowledged him when he had returned to the Joint Ops bullpen two days ago, and had not made any attempt to contact him since; the loss of her trust hurt more than he'd care to admit.  He was back to transmitters to keep an eye on her.  He shifted uncomfortably as he heard Irina's voice.  "_Are you sure you're ready for the truth?  How about Sydney?  Have you told her the truth lately?"_  What a lovely family tradition this was becoming.  Irina lied to him.  He lied to Sydney.  Sydney lied back.  And for all his vaunted expertise in game theory, he felt singularly inept at finding a solution.

His phone rang, and he eyed the clock in relief.  The Abbe.

**

"Andrian, you must do this."

"Or what?  You'll chop off the other hand?" he jeered, lip curling.

"We both know that it was the only way to throw Sloane off the scent.  You'd be dead now otherwise."

"Perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad alternative."

"I've explained this to you.  Repeatedly.  Once this is all over, Sloane will no longer be a threat.  You'll be able to return to your former life. . . ,"

"Return to my former life?  Are you kidding?  As a pauper?"

"Enough," snapped Irina, losing patience.  "You owe her this much.  Do it, or suffer the consequences."

Lazarey's complaints subsided for a moment, as a calculating look came into his eyes.  "Ten million," he said firmly.  

Disdain flashed over Irina's face.  "Five."

"We have an agreement," replied Lazarey.  "You'll be handling the security arrangements?"

"Yes."  Irina neglected to mention that it would be her alone.  She couldn't afford to draw attention to this meeting.

"Very well."  Lazarey inclined his head, as if he were royalty dismissing her.  Irina gave a snort of disgust and handed him the phone.  She hoped Jack had had the sense to tell Sydney what he knew before she heard it from Lazarey.

**

Sydney desultorily wandered through her apartment, making a half-hearted attempt at straightening up the mess from Weiss's last visit.  She had not been very good company, she knew.  She had barely spoken to her father over the past four days; his absence in her life gnawed at her.

It was all his fault, she thought to herself for the hundredth time.  If only he'd trusted her.  And *forbidding* her to meet with her mother?  What was she?  12?  That meeting had gone just fine, thank you very much, without his assistance.  She could hardly wait to throw that in his face.  When they talked again.  After he apologized.  

Her cell phone rang, and she reached for it quickly.  It was about time he called.

"J- Sydney Bristow?" inquired a well-bred voice with a trace of a Russian accent.

"Yes?" she replied puzzled, ignoring a stab of disappointment.

"Andrian Lazarey.  We will meet.  In two days time," and Lazarey proceeded to give her the details.  Sydney hung up, apprehensive.  It was one thing to meet with her mother without a backup; another entirely to meet with Lazarey.  But if she asked her father with help for the Lazarey meeting, she'd have to tell him about her meeting in Damascus.

She chewed her lip, indecisive for a moment.  Was there anyone else she could take?  That she'd rather have covering her back?  _No._

The phone rang again.

**

One thing the Abbe was good for, thought Jack reflectively, was to remind him to concentrate on the long-term.  That focusing solely on his short-term moves could cripple any chance of long-term success.  Which he'd forgotten in dealing with his daughter.  How could he have imagined for one minute that he would be able to prevent her from finding out what had happened for those two years?  Or that she wouldn't eventually discover that she'd been activated?  With Sloane and Irina involved, one of them would be bound to tell her, at the worst possible moment for Jack.

Time to get it over with.  At least one of them could stop lying. 

He picked up the phone and called Sydney.

**

Sydney and Jack eyed each other uncomfortably.  They had arranged to meet at dusk at a fishing pier on the harbor; the screeching of sea gulls the only remaining signs of activity from the day.  Neutral territory.  Neither met the other's eyes.

"There's something I need to tell you," they said in unison.

They both paused and gaped at the other, then each turned serious.

"Mine's worse," they both confessed simultaneously.

Both rolled their eyes.

Jack raised his hand, and noted in relief that his daughter did not mirror his action. "Stop," he said, "you're scaring me."

Sydney grinned.  "If mine's worse, you need to buy dinner."

"Done," said Jack promptly.  

Sydney wrinkled her nose.  "You're pretty sure," she said cautiously.

"Yes," he said soberly.  _Have you told her she was activated, Jack?  That her loving father created a tool for anyone with the right trigger phrase?  That she's a f*cking robot in disguise?  _ "You first."

Sydney bit her lip.  "I met Mom again," she offered, shooting an uneasy glance in his direction.  "I know you told me not to trust her, and to trust Sloane, but I *couldn't*.  And I had to get the message translated.  I have to find out what happened to me, and Lazarey's contacted me" she paused as the words tumbled out to take a breath.  "And I don't know what's going on between you and Mom, but she says there's a reason you don't trust her, but you're wrong, and that you're my father. . . " Sydney's voice trailed off as she realized what she had just said.

Jack raised an eyebrow enquiringly.  "Let's just go back over this slowly, shall we?" he said dryly, pretending not to notice her flush.  "You met your Mother. . . ," he prompted.

Sydney took a deep breath.  She was *not*, after all, 12; he wasn't going to send her to her room.  "I contacted Mom.  I have an emergency phone number, but she's asked me not to share it with you.  I don't plan to," she stated, giving him a level look.

Jack nodded.  "Fine," he said evenly.  "Use your judgment."

Sydney relaxed.  "She translated the 3rd message for me.  It's. . . ,"

". . . a location?" Jack hazarded.

"Yes.  And she arranged for Lazarey to contact me.  Which he did.  We're scheduled to meet in two days.

"Fine.  I'd like to come with you, if you don't mind."

He was *asking* her?  Sydney's eyes flew to her father's.   She saw respect there.  And faith.  "I'd like that," she said simply.

"And your mother said that there's a reason I don't trust her. . . ,"

"That's right.  That she knows there's a reason, but you're wrong."  Sydney watched as her father's face shut down.  "Dad?"

He still carried the pictures in his pocket.  A reminder that facts don't lie. "There's a reason, Sydney.  More than one.  But I'm not wrong.  I've had some communication with your mother myself over the past couple of days…and she confirmed it."

"I think maybe you should tell me the reasons now, Dad.  I thought the two of you worked together while I was gone."

"I thought so too," replied Jack dully, looking away.  "She's. . . the reason I went to prison." The ache, which he had successfully overlaid with anger during the past few weeks, came rushing back as he was forced to say the words aloud.

"But I knew that," said Sydney impatiently.  "You were protecting her.  So that she could protect me."

"You don't understand.  Sloane provided the NSC with evidence that I was working with your mother.  Pictures.  Your mother. . . Irina Derevko gave those pictures to Sloane."

"What?!"

"The day I was arrested, Julia Thorne was on a flight to LA.  You were coming to see me.  The only possible conclusion is that she gave Sloane those pictures so that we wouldn't have a chance to meet."

"How did you find this out?"

"Sloane first.  Then when I – talked - with your mother, she agreed."

"She didn't say why?"

"What could she possibly say, Sydney?  It was a year of my life!" Jack exploded.  He took a deep breath.  "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said in a quieter tone.  "The facts just don't support my placing trust in anything she says." _Would you believe me if I told you?_

"I'm sorry, Dad."  Sydney reached out and squeezed his arm.

Jack shook his head.  "I was. . . a fool," he said quietly.  "You'd think I would have known better."  He took a deep breath.  "Can I ask how the question of your paternity came up?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Oh," said Sydney, coloring again.  "I've been having these dreams.  Where Sloane's my father."

"You asked her if your father was *Sloane*?" asked Jack incredulous.  "Gutsy."

"Mom told me to wash my mouth out with soap."

"One step ahead of me," Jack said with feeling.  He patted her shoulder.  "I can assure you, based on my own personal. . . interest in the matter 20 years ago, that modern science asserts that I am your father.  For better, or for worse.  Anything else in these dreams?"

"Well," said Sydney hesitantly, "I'm young.  And being taught how to use a knife.  And. . . ,"

Jack's face was grave.  "And?"

"Killing animals.  And attacking dummies."

Jack studied her for a moment, his face impassive.  He reached down and pulled a knife from a sheath on his calf.   "You had knife training with SD-6?"

"Yes," said Sydney with puzzlement, taking the knife from him.  "Just basic skills training."

"And how would you characterize your skill level?"

Sydney shrugged.  "Okay.  Nothing special."

Jack nodded at the wall of a shack on the end of the pier, 15 feet away.  "See the knot in the wood?  About 4 feet up on the left?"

Sydney nodded.

"Hit it."

"With this?" asked Sydney in disbelief.  "I'll be lucky to hit the wall."

"Do it."

Sydney rolled her eyes and took a step back.  Jack watched as she unconsciously balanced the knife in her hand then fluidly pulled back and released.  When the knife hit the knot with a twang, Jack had his answer.  The KGB, or one member in particular, had indeed come for his daughter.  

Wordlessly they walked up together to remove the knife from the wall.  Sydney turned to give it back to her father.  "How did you know?" she asked somberly.

"Sydney, I -," Jack stopped as words failed him. _She's a robot She's a robot She's a robot. . . _

"What is it, Dad?  Is this what you needed to tell me?"

Jack nodded mutely, his face crumpling.  He looked out to the sea, composing himself for a moment before turning back.  "I. . . I've failed you, Sydney.  I did something desperately stupid, when you were small, because I loved you.  And it's caused you unbelievable pain."

"Dad, what are you talking about?" asked Sydney worriedly, taking her father's hand as she sensed his distress.

"Sydney – Julia Thorne was your Project Christmas code name."


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30  
  
  
  
"Julia Thorne was what?!"   
  
"Sydney, you were activated the past two years...in your Project Christmas identity," Jack admitted, face ashen.  
  
Sydney snatched her hand away and backed away from him, horrified. "But why...why would you do that?" she asked, voice breaking. "Why would you do that to *me*?"  
  
"I didn't, Sydney. I give you my word," said Jack desperately. "And I would have sworn it wasn't possible."  
  
"You mean everything that happened...the people I murdered...the slime that I slept with. . . losing Vaughn...was because of some bizarre psych experiment you ran on me when I was a child?" Sydney's voice began to rise.  
  
"Sydney, it was never meant to turn out like this. I did it because I feared I might lose you," Jack pleaded, praying for understanding.  
  
"Lose me? LOSE ME?" she shouted. "This was all about YOU? Do you have any idea what I'VE lost?" Her chest heaved.  
  
"Sydney, I -,"  
  
"How long have you known?" Her voice, loud earlier, had suddenly become deadly soft. "How. long?" she hissed.  
  
Jack swallowed. "Two months."   
  
"You b*stard." Sydney's open palm flew threw the air. Jack saw it coming and waited as it hit his face with a loud crack. "All that time. . . all that time we were working together, and I was *so* grateful," her voice caught in a sob, "grateful that my father was there, and that there was someone that I could trust, who loved me. . . and it was all a lie. You were trying to cover up what you'd done."   
  
"No."  
  
"No?" she challenged incredulously. "Do you expect me to believe -,"  
  
"Yes, I tried to cover up what I'd done. I was. . . devastated that I had caused you so much heartache. But Sydney, my love for you was real. The things I did were because I was afraid I would lose your love."  
  
"And now?"  
  
"I still love you. And I'm still afraid." Jack looked at her steadily.  
  
"Jack Bristow? Afraid?" sneered Sydney out of reflex.  
  
"I've never been so terrified in my life," he replied, eyes flickering as an expression of vulnerability flashed across his face. "I've lied to you for so long - about your mother, about Project Christmas, about what I did for a living - I don't know if you can love me without the lies. Now that you know the truth."   
  
"And if I can't?" asked Sydney somberly.  
  
Jack closed his eyes for a moment, trying to maintain control. "I understand," he said quietly, "better than most that there is a point of no return. Where trust. . . and love. . . are no longer possible. And I accept that I may have crossed that line. As your mother has crossed it with me. But please let me help you find out why this was done to you."  
  
Sydney turned away from him, staring out over the water as tears streamed down her face. "I need some time. To think."  
  
Jack nodded, drained. "I'll walk you back to your car."  
  
"Fine," came the subdued response.  
  
**  
  
Arvin Sloane sipped his cognac contemplatively. Reports placed Jack and Sydney Bristow back in LA. Sydney, he knew, had not yet located the third item that Julia had hidden before losing her memories, but he was confident that she would do so. Julia would not have left something like that to chance. He wondered, for the thousandth time, why she had chosen to hide the artifacts instead of delivering them directly to him. Had she believed she was being watched? Had she known that Irina was planning to deactivate her?  
  
He shrugged. She'd be able to tell him as soon as she was reactivated. It shouldn't be much longer. For while Irina appeared to have slipped through Jack's fingers, Jack was nothing if not tenacious. Particularly in this case. He wondered what Jack was planning next.  
  
**  
  
Jack sat on his couch, staring despondently at the far wall. He had been sitting in the same spot for almost two hours; there didn't seem to be any reason to move. A banging on his front door caused him to wrench himself away from the futile second-guessing of his life in which he had been engaged. Listlessly he made his way to the front hall and pulled the door open.  
  
"Hi."  
  
Jack looked out onto his front porch, where Sydney stood holding two bags. "Hi."  
  
"Can I come in?"  
  
"Sure." Jack stepped back and let Sydney enter. The unmistakable aroma of Chinese food filtered up from one of the bags.  
  
"You won," said Sydney evenly. "I bought dinner."  
  
As she moved into the light, Jack saw that her face was puffy, her eyes reddened. Probably not too dissimilar from his own. "You didn't have to."   
  
"I know."  
  
Silently they unpacked. Sydney offered her father a beer from the second bag. "No thanks. I'm fine." Sydney followed her father's eyes to the bottle of scotch on the counter, all but empty.  
  
"I have questions," she said briefly.   
  
"Anything." He gestured at two chairs and they sat, each pretending to eat their food.  
  
"If you didn't activate me, who did?" Sydney began.  
  
Jack sighed. Would it ever be easy? "All evidence points towards. . . your mother," he said gently.  
  
"Mom?" repeated Sydney, her face falling. "Mom did that to me?"   
  
"Knife skills, assassin conditioning. They were part of the Russian Project Christmas. And, as you know," he said with an edge to his voice, "there is little she didn't know about the project and its protocols. You must have been conditioned from an early age."  
  
"I don't believe you," said Sydney flatly. "Mom wouldn't have done this to me."   
  
"Sydney, we're talking about the woman who abandoned you when you were six. Shot you in the shoulder. Knocked you out with a hockey stick. Tasered you. She is a master at manipulating feelings. Yours. . . .mine. She was in LA the night you disappeared. And the last words she said to you were 'You are the chosen one'."  
  
"But. . . then why has she been helping me?"  
  
"She needs us for something. I don't know what, but I suspect we'll find out once we follow that third clue."  
  
Sydney sat in silence for a moment, looking miserable. Jack wondered if she was wishing she'd been an orphan.  
  
"But you said it wasn't possible," she protested weakly. "For me to be activated."  
  
"I didn't think it was. Activation requires a particular sequence of words. No one, *no one*, knew that sequence besides me. I would never have voluntarily shared it. Certainly not with Irina Derevko. And she would not have had the opportunity to. . . ," his voice caught in his throat.  
  
Sydney watched him, puzzled.  
  
"Panama," Jack said with loathing. "God, what an idiot I've been. It must have been sometime that night." He felt nauseous. How long had he slept that night? Two hours? Three? Had that been enough time for her to extract the trigger phrase from him?  
  
"Dad?" Sydney watched the shifting expressions on her father's face.  
  
"Forget I mentioned it. Please."  
  
"Okaaaay."  
  
"When I said I'll tell you anything, I'd like to still occasionally filter. Things between your mother and me."  
  
"Fine," said Sydney hurriedly. She bit her lip. "I have one last question."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Why did you tell me?"  
  
Jack hesitated, knowing that his answer was important. "I realized that I was doing to you what your mother had done to me," he said softly. "Your love for me was based on lies. It was. . . wrong. And cruel. And every additional day that you lived that lie was worse."  
  
"You think about that a lot lately, what Mom did to you, don't you?"  
  
"It's provided me a useful perspective on the relationship you and I have together. And what I am, and am not, willing to put you through. I was a coward, Sydney. I should have told you as soon as I knew, even if it made me the worst father on the planet. I'm sorry."  
  
Sydney reached over and squeezed his hand. "Not the planet, surely," she murmured.  
  
Jack looked down at the hand holding his and swallowed. "The continent?"  
  
Sydney leaned over and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. "Let's take it a step at a time, shall we?"  
  
**  
  
"Sound check."   
  
"I hear you fine, Dad."   
  
Jack scanned the cameras in front of him in the van. "All clear here. Be careful sweetheart. I love you." He held his breath.  
  
Sydney adjusted the veil over her face and bent forward, affecting the gait of a woman three times her age. In her shapeless black dress and clunky shoes, she was just another widow filing into the church for evening prayers.  
  
"I love you too, Dad." 


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

"Sound check."

"Is this really necessary?" huffed Lazarey.  "Why can't *you* answer her questions?"

"I gather that means you can hear me," replied Irina irritably.  "My credibility is a little suspect at this particular time."  She lay prone in the choir loft of the cathedral, with a clear view of the floor below and a sniper rifle hugged to her side.

"And this beard itches."

"Five million dollars, Andrian."

"Let's get this over with."

**

"Yes, sir.  We're tracking Bristow.  He's in a van parked by the church.   His daughter's just going in now.   It appears that they're working in tandem this time."  

Lovely, thought Sloane.  Sydney must be meeting Irina and Jack had planned another family reunion.  "The shooter's in place?"

"Yes, sir.  We observed Bristow earlier today when he was casing the church.  He placed cameras; we've made adjustments accordingly.  Our spotters will be outside his camera angles."

"Keep me posted on what's happening.  Make sure your man is ready to take the shot on my order."

"Yes, sir."

**

As instructed, Sydney slipped into the pew 8th from the back, left hand side, sliding down to kneel next to a man whose beard obscured most of his face.

"Dr. Lazarey?" she whispered.  When he turned she inhaled quickly.  One of his hands was missing.

"Ah, Julia.  Your disguise is quite convincing."

"Do you know me?" asked Sydney, bewildered, trying to place him.  His face and voice were familiar, but she couldn't. . . 

"But of course.  I've known you since you were a child."

"Excuse me?" 

"But you might remember me as. . . Mr. Peters."  

Sydney recoiled, aghast.  "I do remember you.  You're the man in my dreams.   The man that. . . ,"

 "Yes," said Lazarey complacently.  "I was in charge of your development program for many years.  Summers only, of course.  When your father believed you were away at camp."

Sydney's thoughts were interrupted by a string of epithets coming through her comm. link.  

_"Ask him when he started," snarled Jack._

"When did you first start my. . . development program?"

"When you were 7."  

Sydney heard the crash of a fist against the counter in the van.  

_"B*tch."_

_**_

_"Mr. Sloane?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"We have no, repeat no, sighting of Derevko.  This may be a wild goose chase."_

_"What is Sydney doing?"_

_"Praying."_

**

"But tell me about your dreams.  How interesting."  He peered at her closely, almost, Sydney thought, as if she were a bug in a microscope.

"I didn't come here to tell you about my dreams," snapped Sydney.  "I came here to learn about Julia."  

_The mass had now commenced, and a droning chant could be heard from the front.  Irina slid over to her left to get a better view of the worshippers behind Sydney and Lazarey.  She examined them closely then relaxed, satisfied.  "Get on with it, Andrian," she whispered._

Lazarey rubbed his ear irritably.  "Ah, but Julia had dreams, too.  Dreams about Sydney.  It was the first step in helping her to reverse the activation."

"It was *you* who reversed the activation?" asked Sydney, stunned.  "How?"

_Methodically Jack zoomed in on different parts of the church.  No one was paying attention to Sydney and Lazarey.  Excellent._

"I am a genius," replied Lazarey simply.  "It took a long time.  Almost a year, really.  Successive hypnosis sessions, interspersed into your life, aimed at opening up a gateway into your subconscious.  I couldn't eliminate the programming – I would have needed the trigger phrase, and only one person had that – but I was able to successfully blur some of the lines between Julia and Sydney."  He paused and frowned.  "It was a travesty of course.  You were my greatest triumph."

Sydney impulsively leaned over and placed her hand on his arm.  "Thank you," she said with feeling.

"Don't thank me," spat Lazarey, snatching his arm away from her, his face twisting.  "Your life has been a curse.  You've attempted to murder me twice, and you've beggared me once.  I should have throttled you when I had the chance."

"I've tried to murder you *twice*?"

"Yes, the first time 15 months ago.  Fortunately, I had been. . . convinced to take a leave of absence the day prior.  The man that died was my body double."

"Body double?" 

"I am a Romanov," declared Lazarey proudly.  "One of the last of our line.  Naturally I have a double.  A loyal subject, willing to risk his life to protect our noble family."

"But he knew my name."

"Of course.  He would scarcely be effective if he did not have access to my appointment calendar," replied Lazarey indifferently.  Sydney attempted, and failed, to discern the slightest trace of remorse in Lazarey's voice.

**

_"Still nothing?" demanded Sloane._

_"Yes sir."_

_"Describe who she is sitting next to."_

_"An elderly gentleman.  Long beard.  His lips are moving – he's either praying or talking.."  Lazarey shifted positions.  "And. . . he only has one hand, sir."_

**

"And the second time?"

"Eight months later, I got careless and was spotted.  You were sent to finish the job properly, and produce my hand as proof of completion.  By that time, though, you had started to access some of Sydney's memories.  You wanted more; you were willing to negotiate."  Lazarey raised the stump of his arm accusingly.  "This was the only deal we could strike."

"If I was such a curse, why did you bother?

"You think this was a humanitarian mission?" replied Lazarey acidly.  "There was something I wanted."

"What?" 

"My son.  Julian Sark."

"*Sark*?" asked Sydney.

"Yes, that is the name he uses now.  He disappeared without a trace 10 years ago.  He is a Romanov, and inheritor of the bloodline.  It was imperative that I locate him."

"You wanted to find your son. . . because of your bloodline?"  Lucky Sark.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," sniffed Lazarey.  

_"Not now, Andrian," Irina hissed._

Lazarey pulled out his earpiece in disgust.  "Perhaps we should return to the main points?" he suggested.

"Yes," agreed Sydney, keeping her voice low as the priest spoke from the front.  

**

_"Did you say one hand?" demanded Sloane._

_"Yes sir."_

_Sloane's mind raced.  Lazarey was *alive*?  "Tell the shooter he has a new target," ordered Sloane crisply.  "The man with one hand.  And give him the green light."_

_"Yes sir."_

_"Wait," said Sloane, as his team leader prepared to sign off.  "Derevko must be somewhere in that church.  Find her."_

_"And kill her, sir?"_

_Sloane tapped the top of his desk lightly with his pen.  "No.  I have a better idea.  Bring her to me."_

**

An elderly deacon began shuffling down the aisle, collecting the offering.

_"Get more details on the deactivation,"_ _urged her father_.  _"It's important."_

"You said earlier that you had 'blurred the lines' between Julia and Sydney to be able to deactivate me.  What did that mean?" probed Sydney.   

"Your programming created clear boundaries between the person who was Sydney and the person who was Julia.  Neither could see the other's experiences.  The person who was Sydney would not have been able to access Julia's special skills and talents unless activated."

"But I can," countered Sydney.  She fingered the throwing knife that now always resided inside her sleeve.  

"You can because I made it possible," said Lazarey with conceit.  "Julia began to see Sydney in her dreams.  It confused her. . . and made her question some of the objectives she was receiving.  Eventually I was able to find a way to completely transfer her out of the Julia state.  She insisted that I do so.  That was 3 months ago."

"Three months ago," said Sydney, wonderingly.  "When I woke up in Hong Kong.  But can't I just be reactivated again?  If someone knows the trigger phrase?"  Sydney fumbled for her purse as the deacon grew closer.

"Yes, but I was able to program in a release phrase.  If you are Julia, and someone utters the release phrase, you will switch back to Sydney.  Although each time you make the switch, those walls between the two of you come down a little further.  There will come a time when Julia and Sydney merge. . . for better, or for worse."

"_Ask him what the release phrase is_," _hissed Jack_.  

"What's the release phrase?" asked Sydney.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that.  Only two people know the release phrase." 

"Who?" Sydney demanded.

"Well I do, naturally.  And your mother."

Sydney heard her father's breath suck inward.  "My mother?"  

_"Your mother?!" _

"Of course," said Lazarey with disdain.  "Who do you *think* compelled me to do this?  The Easter Bunny?  Fifteen months ago she came for me, having found out that you were still alive and had been activated.  My life has been a living hell ever since."

_Irina smirked and shifted to the right, watching the deacon move down the aisle._

"But I thought my mother *activated* me."  

_Irina rolled her eyes, then stilled.  The deacon. . . "Andrian!  The man on your right!"  She watched in dismay as Lazarey failed to react._

"Ridiculous. Why would she do that?  She's your mother."

_"Oh, god," thought Jack to himself, head in his hands, as the pieces began to fall in place.  _

"Besides, if she had activated you, she wouldn't have risked her life trailing you throughout the world, periodically "borrowing" you and bringing you to me sedated.  It was dangerous, in those early days, as Julia had been ordered to kill her on sight.  Not until the last few months was Julia aware of, and accepting, of what we were doing."

"But. . . if it wasn't my mother, then, who activated me?"  

_"Arvin Sloane," Jack ground out.  What a prize ass he'd been, he thought as he looked up._

"Arvin Sloane."

_"Sydney, GUN! On your right!" shouted Jack, staring at the monitor in horror.  He cursed, knowing that he had been too distracted to catch the deacon earlier. _

Sydney spotted the silenced gun as it emerged from the deacon's cassock and dove for his hand, but was a fraction of a second too late.  Sydney heard the "pfft" of a silencer in stereo as Lazarey and the deacon both crumpled to the floor, fatally wounded.

_"Sydney, are you okay?  Get out of there!"_  Jack leapt out of the van and charged towards the cathedral, gun raised, fighting through the panicked congregation fleeing in the opposite direction.  Shouts and screams rent the air, effectively muffling the scuffle in the choir loft.  

Sydney rapidly exited, blending with crowd and meeting her father on the steps.  Placing his arm around her shoulders, they hurried away.

**

Out the side entrance of the cathedral, two men emerged supporting a woman, slumped unconscious.  "Fainted," one of them explained to a curious bystander as he helped her to a car.  "We'll take care of her."


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32  
  
"Don't say it." Jack raised his hand warningly. He and Sydney sat in the back of the van, collecting their breath.  
  
"If you insist," smirked Sydney, picking up a pencil and tapping it lightly on the counter.  
  
"You okay?"   
  
"Yes. Although it's a little disconcerting to have the men on either side of you drop dead simultaneously." She continued to tap.  
  
"*What* are you - ," Jack paused, recognizing what Sydney was doing. Tapping out 'I told you so' in Morse code. "Do you *mind*?" he grimaced, exasperated. "This could all be an elaborate setup. We have to cross-check his statement, analyze his voice to make sure he wasn't lying, check his DNA against records to make sure it was the real Lazarey -,"  
  
"Yeah, but what does your gut tell you?"  
  
"Sydney," Jack expostulated, "you know it's a mistake to be driven by -,"  
  
"Dad!"  
  
Jack exhaled loudly. "He was telling the truth. And I'm an idiot. Satisfied?"  
  
"It's a start."  
  
"But," he pointed out, "there's still a lot we don't know."  
  
Sydney nodded. "Like how they knew where the meet was?"  
  
"Just one of many questions. But that's a good place to start."  
  
**  
  
Marshall looked up and felt a twinge of pleasure. Or was it fear? Or maybe both? Jack and Sydney Bristow stood in front of him, looking grim. Perhaps if he concentrated on Sydney's face. . .   
  
"Marshall, we need your help," she said sweetly. Marshall relaxed.  
  
"Sure, Syd, you know I'll do whatever I can. I was just working on -,"  
  
"Marshall, Sydney and I are having difficulty evading surveillance," interrupted Jack abruptly. "We need you to find out why."  
  
"Oh," said Marshall flustered. "What kind of surveillance? Video, audio, remote -,"  
  
"Remote. We're being tailed."  
  
"Uh, well, we can check for transmitters. . . ," his voice trailed off as he rummaged through his office. He pulled out a crate that contained an assortment of electronic devices, candy wrappers, and action toys. "Here," he said victoriously, pulling out a scanner. "This puppy'll do the trick." He waved it over both of them and studied the readout. "Unh-uh. You're clean."  
  
"We're *not* clean," Jack corrected. Marshall's face fell.  
  
"Dad, it was only once. Maybe they just tailed us and got lucky."  
  
"Sydney, we changed vehicles twice and clothing once. We booked on three plane flights simultaneously. We changed ID when we entered Prague. That's a level of luck that's hard to imagine." He hesitated. "And it wasn't only once."  
  
Sydney frowned. "I don't remember -,"  
  
"Later," said Jack tersely.  
  
"Well you're not transmitting, that's for sure." Marshall thought for a minute. "Although, maybe. . . " he said to himself meditatively. "Nah."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well you remember at SD-6, after Emily died, and Mr. Sloane was being blackmailed, and we coated the bonds he was carrying to trace the blackmailers? We didn't use a transmitter, because we were sure it would be detected. But we weren't going to let $100 million walk away from us, either."  
  
"Although you did," interjected Jack, sotto voce.  
  
Marshall stopped, flustered again. Sydney shot a withering look at her father. "Go on, Marshall," she said soothingly. You were saying?"  
  
"Oh, well, once coated, the bonds could be traced using a long-range infrared scan. The bonds themselves produced no energy, so if you didn't know what you were looking for, you wouldn't find it. But aim those little infrared rays at it, and 'Voila'!" Marshall beamed. "But only a couple of people even know that technology exists."   
  
"Like Sloane?" pointed out Jack dryly.   
  
"Could you check for us, Marshall?" prompted Sydney gently.  
  
"All right, but you'd have to be a pretty smart cookie to pull this off...if I do say so myself," he said modestly. He busied himself for a moment, wiring several different components together before sitting back, satisfied. "Marshall Flinkman, superhero," he murmured to himself, then realized with a start that he wasn't alone. "Uh," he stammered, "I didn't mean I was a real superhero. I mean, you're the superheroes. I just kind of sit here in my little room and -,"  
  
"Whenever you're ready, Marshall," interrupted Jack.  
  
"Oh, right." He ran his improvised scanner over Sydney. "Nope, nothing here." He turned to Jack and the device immediately issued a small chirp. "Hoho!" said Marshall gleefully. Slowly he moved it up and down, stopping over Jack's breast pocket as a stream of chirps were emitted. "Bingo!" He reached forward, only to find Jack's hand holding his in an iron grip.  
  
"That's enough, Marshall, thank you."  
  
Marshall shrank back as he saw the fury in Jack's eyes. "B-but, d-don't you want me to confirm what's emitting the signal?"  
  
"I've got a pretty good idea," replied Jack in clipped tones. "I think we're done here." He turned on his heel and stalked out. Sydney followed, puzzled.  
  
"You're welcome!" called Marshall down the hall. "Anytime I can help!"  
  
**  
  
Sydney entered her father's office, closing the door behind her. "What was that all about?"  
  
With disgust, Jack withdrew the folded pictures from his pocket. "Sloane gave me these. They were copies of the pictures that your mother had provided to him, the ones that confirmed to the NSC that I had been working with her. He's been tracking me ever since."  
  
"What's on them?" asked Sydney curiously, reaching her hand out.  
  
Jack held his hand away and walked over to the corner. "That, sweetheart, would fall under the category of 'too much information'." He dropped the pictures in the shredder.  
  
"Oh," said Sydney, biting her lip to keep from laughing. "Need-to-know basis, huh?"  
  
"Yes. And our *daughter* is definitely not on the need-to-know list."  
  
**  
  
"Just checking in. I've been out of touch the past day or two."  
  
"Nothing to report, Mr. Bristow. No new codes."  
  
"Call me when they change."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Jack hung up the phone, mildly disappointed. It was not uncommon for the Abbe to skip a day or two. He had as well, when he was in prison. An interrogation, a block-wide strip-search, illness.   
  
He hoped the Abbe was back in play soon. He could certainly use the distraction.  
  
**  
  
"Okay, let's go over what we know." Pizza and beer littered the table; Jack had a large legal pad in front of him, pen poised in his left hand. He waited patiently while Sydney organized her thoughts.  
  
"One. You conditioned me as part of Project Christmas, giving me the code name 'Julia Thorne'."  
  
Jack winced. "Did you need to start there?"   
  
"But it all started there, didn't it?" Sydney pointed out reasonably. "Two. Lazarey provided additional 'development' - don't you love that term - while you thought I was attending camp, from the age of seven."  
  
"You used to sing those stupid camp songs all the way home." Jack shook his head. "A brilliant strategy for making sure I didn't ask you any questions." He jotted a note down on his pad. "I'm going to keep track of things we don't know as well. Like who arranged for that training. Sloane's the obvious candidate, but we can't rule out the KGB. Or," he hesitated, "your mother."  
  
"Uh, actually Dad, we can." Sydney chewed on her lip for a moment. "Those dreams I told you about? They're of the place where I had the additional conditioning. I can clearly remember Lazarey, and I can remember Sloane dropping me off and picking me up. He -," she halted for a moment, "I -,"  
  
Jack put his pen down. "Yes?" he said in a low voice.  
  
"I thought he was my father. All the time I was Julia. I remember. . . ," her voice grew strong with loathing, "*hugging* him."  
  
Not a muscle moved in Jack's face. "Sydney," he said carefully, "do you remember. . . were you. . . ," he swallowed, "abused in any way?"  
  
Sydney's eyes grew round. "You mean. . . ?"  
  
Jack nodded.  
  
"No," she said decisively. "To be honest, my memories are mostly happy. Playing games with him, laughing, being glad to see him." Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember. "He was. . . kind."  
  
Jack ran a hand through his hair in relief. Perhaps Sloane would die a quick death. Not a slow, lingering one. He picked up his pen. "Okay, what's next?"  
  
"Something else we don't know. Wouldn't Lazarey have needed to have the trigger phrase to have done the extra conditioning? How'd he get it?"  
  
Grimacing, Jack studied a spot on the wall above Sydney's head. "I'm afraid I know the answer to that. I gave it to him."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You'd need to crawl back into my paranoid mind back then to really understand, but I was convinced that the other shoe would drop. That the KGB would come for you. They would have," he took a deep breath, "had to kill me in the process, if they were going to take you while I was there." Sydney reached over and squeezed his hand gently, but did not interrupt. "Arvin worked with me on Project Christmas. I confided in him what I'd done; he was my closest friend. One of my only friends at that point in the CIA, to be frank. I gave him the trigger phrase to use in the event that I. . . couldn't."  
  
"But surely, later. . . ,"  
  
"Oh, yes, once Arvin went rogue, I changed it. You were about 16, I think. But by that time you were working during the summer, and hanging out with your friends. You weren't going to camp anymore. I still don't know how he found out the new one." Jack leant forward and jotted another note on the pad. "Sydney, I don't give up information very easily. And there are a few things that I would have rather died than given up. This is one of those things. I'm sorry, honey." He shook his head. "I wish I could stop saying that."  
  
"We should probably move on," said Sydney softly, wanting to erase the bleak look on her father's face.   
  
"You're right," he said shaking himself. "And I think we're only on point two."  
  
"Three. I disappeared. What I remember of that fight with. . . Allison, I would have been pretty banged up. I either went to the hospital and was activated, or I was activated right away. I became an assassin."  
  
"And Sloane did a first-class job of simulating your death." Jack stared at Sydney unseeing for a moment, as he remembered her funeral. Sydney squeezed his hand again.  
  
"Right here, Dad. I'm right here."  
  
Jack pulled his gaze back. "Yes, you are," he said gratefully.  
  
"Four. You and Mom started to look for my killers."  
  
"Separately, at first," Jack offered. "Later we worked together."  
  
"Five. This is where it gets a little fuzzy. Mom, apparently, finds out I'm alive, and determines I've been activated. She goes to Lazarey and coerces him to help her."  
  
Jack sat silently for a moment.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
"She didn't tell me," he said evenly. "She knew you were alive, and didn't tell me."  
  
"Perhaps she had her reasons?" suggested Sydney. "Why don't you write that down as a question that we don't have the answer to?" she said, a slight strain in her voice.  
  
Jack's pen didn't move. "I'm your father, Sydney. And while I might not have been the *genius* that your friend Dr. Lazarey was, there wasn't much about Project Christmas that I didn't know. Or couldn't have figured out with time."   
  
"Riiiight. Maybe we could come back to that."  
  
"I'd prefer not to, if you don't mind," he said stiffly.   
  
Sydney sighed. "Six. I attempt to murder Lazarey, presumably on Sloane's orders, but kill his body double instead."  
  
"Didn't Lazarey say that your mother had come for him only the day before?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Then Sloane must have found out, or guessed, what your mother was planning."  
  
Sydney nodded. "She just got there faster than he expected. Seven. You spot me via a surveillance camera. Now you also know I'm alive." She looked at her father curiously. "Did you contact Mom?"  
  
"Yes," said her father briefly, his face still unforgiving. "We'll get to that in a moment. Actually, I should probably pick it up from here. Eight. Julia boards a plane to LA."  
  
"We don't know why," observed Sydney.  
  
"Self-centered as this might be, I have to believe that you were coming to see me. Maybe subconsciously you knew that I could help. Nine. Your mother provides surveillance photos to Sloane that conclusively demonstrate that we've been working together."  
  
"You can't be sure of that," said Sydney. "It could have been Sloane who obtained them."  
  
"But we can," reminded her father. "Your mother told me she had given the photos to Sloane. Of course, we don't know *when* she gave him those photos. But I'm guessing we have the timeline right, because the NSC received them while Julia was in the air to LA. And your mother also confirmed that she had prevented you from seeing me."  
  
Sydney shifted uncomfortably, knowing what was next.  
  
"Ten," said Jack, voice unsteady. "I go to prison." 


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

"Perhaps we should take a break," Sydney suggested.  "I'll get us some more beer."  She stood up and moved to the kitchen before he had a chance to respond.  

Jack pushed himself back from the table and walked over to the window, gazing sullenly out into the night.  Moon.  Stars.  He hadn't seen those for a year.  All, it appeared, because she'd wanted to do it on her own.  Had she wanted to earn Sydney's gratitude?  Or just not trusted him?  Did it get easier, he wondered, to abandon him each time she did it?  Or perhaps. . . his jaw clenched. . . it had never been very difficult.

Sydney walked up behind him, putting her arm around his waist and leaning her head against his shoulder in sympathy.  And yet, he thought, looking down at his daughter, Irina had demonstrably placed herself at risk to protect Sydney.  She had certainly kept up her end of the deal.  Of their. . . business arrangement.  For that, at least, he should be grateful.  He reached his arm around Sydney and hugged her tight.  

"We could finish this tomorrow," Sydney offered softly.

"No, let's get it over with."  Jack moved back to the table and scanned the pad.  "Lazarey gave us most of the rest.  With your mother's help he managed to reverse Julia's programming; Julia hid three items, and sent three letters.  When she was ready, he finished the job and you woke up in Hong Kong."

"We're back to what we don't know, aren't we?"

"Yes." Jack turned the page and started writing.  "What's the third item?  Another artifact?  Instructions about what to do with the Rambaldi fluid?" Jack speculated, making notes. 

"Could be a great recipe for chocolate chip cookies," replied Sydney flippantly.  "Only one way to find out."

"You know, Sydney, we don't really *need* to find out," Jack said thoughtfully.  "You're back, you're safe, and we know what happened to you.  And another of those things we don't know," he said, jotting himself another note, "is Sloane's motive.  Retrieving this third item may be to his benefit; I fail to see how it's to ours."

"Well, I can certainly take a crack at Sloane's motive," responded Sydney.  "Three syllables.  Starts with an 'R', and the last two syllables are a nickname for Kendall."

Jack looked disapprovingly at his daughter, but the corners of his mouth tugged upwards.  Sydney smiled to herself.  She'd managed to distract him, for a while at least.  "Probably a safe bet," he agreed.  "Which gives us an even better rationale for just melting down the damn key."

Sydney looked troubled.  "I don't know," she said unconvinced.  "Julia wanted me to find it.  There must have been a reason."

"Enough of a reason for us to both risk our lives giving Sloane something he wants?"  Jack shook his head.  "You and Julia are different people.  Her motivations might not be yours.  Besides, I think we've got something more pressing right now – the release phrase.  Without it, Sloane could reactivate you at any time."

Sydney scowled.  "There's a heart-warming thought.  But Lazarey said only two people know the release phrase."

"Wrong," said Jack flatly.

"Wrong?"

"Lazarey's dead.  Only *one* person knows now.  Your mother."  Jack leant back in his chair.  "Who's been in hiding since you resurfaced."

"Which begs the question."

"Two questions actually."

"No, three," said Sydney triumphantly.  "First, why has she remained in hiding? Second, why hasn't she told us what the release phrase is?  And third - ,"

"Where is she now?" Jack finished.

**

Irina faded in and out of consciousness. Was she dead?  Was this hell?  At one point she was able to focus her eyes enough to discern an IV attached to her arm and a disembodied voice asking her questions.  No, she thought to herself hazily.  Just Sloane's version of hell.

**

Sloane reverently approached the cave entrance, almost hidden by the shifting sands.  Burrowing his way through, he stepped into the cool, dark interior, the stagnant air laden with mold, decomposing creatures that had sought their final shelter, and the occasional whiff of crude oil from the reserves buried far beneath the desert outside.  He lit his lantern and cautiously made his way down the sloping tunnel.

After 50 yards, the passageway widened into a circular chamber.  Sloane raised his lantern and panned the walls, his face open in wonder.  All of Rambaldi's writings, which he had tirelessly collected over 30 years, were inscribed upon the room's surfaces.  For a long moment he stood, transfixed.  The silence of the room swirled around him as he contemplated the genius that had made this all possible.  And that soon would make even more possible.

With reluctance he lowered the light and began searching for what he sought, finding it quickly.  A small indentation in the wall; a keyhole.  He read the words inscribed above, translating the ancient Italian effortlessly, and cursed.

_A key, a legacy, and a choice._

_All three must there be_

_To bring forth the piece which will complete_

_My greatest work _

_Without the key there can be no entry_

_Without the legacy there can be no promise_

_And without the choice my work will be consumed in burning anger_

He reread the inscription one more time and turned on his heel.  There was one more thing he needed Irina for.

**

"Hello, Irina."

As Sloane's face came into view, Irina convulsively flexed her arms against her restraints, hissing in pain as the arm that had been broken in the cathedral choir loft rebelled.  She eyed him grimly, imagining what she would do to him if given a chance.  Even half a chance.

"Not feeling communicative today?  No matter.  You've been extremely helpful so far." Sloane's eyes flicked to the IV attached to her arm.  

"How long have I been here?" Irina ground out.

"Three or four days," replied Sloane offhandedly.

"And you haven't killed me yet?  Getting sentimental in your old age?"

"I decided you had some information I wanted."

Irina leaned back against the stretcher, stomach churning.  Please no, she pleaded.

"Let's see.  Julia's 3rd set of coordinates – in Qatar.  The release phrase -,"

"You're lying!"

"Oh, am I?" smirked Sloane, and muttered a phrase.  Irina's body went slack against the restraints as all need to resist evaporated.  "And wise of you not to tell Jack.  He had, after all, blabbed the trigger phrase, hadn't he?  Who knows what he might have told me?  So you're the only person left *alive* who can reverse Julia's activation."

She had given it all to him, thought Irina dully.  

"Of course, while you were under I learned all kinds of other fascinating information, things you must have buried deeply.  Does Jack have any idea how you feel about him?"

He probably never would, she thought numbly to herself.  Perhaps it was best that way, given the way this was likely to end. "Why am I still alive?"

"Ah, so glad you asked.  It turns out that I have a little problem that you can help me with.  Sydney and Jack do not appear to be making any effort towards recovering the third item.  I thought you might provide them a little incentive."

"F*ck you."

"Well," said Sloane thoughtfully, reaching over and running his finger up her jaw, "if that's what you want. . . .,"

Irina jerked her head away.  "Don't touch me, you b*stard.  Or I swear I'll rip your balls off."  The look in her eyes was murderous.

Sloane sneered.  "You're damaged goods anyway.  So I'll pass.  But I'll be back when it's time for you to play your part."

**

"Uh, Mr. Bristow?  It's been 5 days.  Are you sure you want me to keep checking?"

"Keep looking until I tell you to stop," snapped Jack irritably.  He wasn't quite sure why he felt so bereft at the thought that he would no longer be playing chess with an anonymous prisoner in a maximum-security facility.  Particularly since the Abbe had been one move away from beating him *again*.

"Yes, sir.  It's your money."

"Wait.  Can your source find out if there have been any prisoners using that exercise area that been discharged in the past week?  I'm looking for someone that would have been there over a year. I want a copy of the file."

"For a price."

"Do it."

**

_Mozart_182:  Distinguished composer looking for music lover_

_Blowurhorn wants to chat privately_

Cancel.

_Longbow wants to chat privately_

Cancel.

_Bangmydrum wants to chat privately_

Cancel.

Jack glowered at the screen.  It was the 3rd straight night he had attempted to contact Irina after he had placed the ad.  Why wasn't she responding?  And if not to him, then why not to Sydney?  Sydney had tried her mother's number numerous times over the past few days with similar results.

Of course, he thought dispassionately, her last two contacts with them had ended in disaster.  He had captured her and interrogated her the first time; her emissary Lazarey had died in the second. . . 

"Sh*t!"  He picked up his phone and rapidly dialed Sydney.  "Can you come over?  Right away?"

**

By the time Sydney arrived, Jack had loaded the tapes from the cathedral into his video player.

"What's up Dad?  Did you hear from Mom?"

"Sydney, you said men died on either side of you?  Simultaneously?" asked Jack without preamble.

"Yes.  Lazarey and the deacon."

"So there were two shooters."

Sydney thought a moment.  "Yes, there must have been. . . oh!" she said in understanding.  "You think the second shooter was Mom?"

"Maybe."  Jack fast-forwarded to the clip of the shooting.  "Look – here's the deacon."  They watched together as the deacon lifted his gun and fired at Lazarey.  Within two frames, a fatal wound could be seen forming itself on the side of the deacon's head.

"It looks like the angle's from the back of the church," observed Sydney.  

"Yes," agreed Jack, "and high.  Look at how much lower the exit wound is."

Sydney looked at him.  "The choir loft?  Do you have any footage of that?"

"No.  I couldn't get in there, and couldn't position the other cameras high enough."  He fast-forwarded through.  "But I had to have caught her on the way out.  I had all the exits covered.  Maybe we can pick up a car, or a license plate."  

Jack switched tapes effortlessly and fast-forwarded through again.  Suddenly his finger jammed the pause button.  Lips pressed together in a tight line, he backed up and played the scene in slow motion.  Irina, unconscious, being carried out of the church.

Blood drained from Sydney's face.  "I guess we know where Mom is."

Grimly, her father nodded.  "With Sloane."  If she's not already dead, he added to himself silently.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Jack reached out a reassuring hand to Sydney while his mind raced.  Five days Irina had been with Sloane.  What was Sloane capable of?  Suppressing a shudder, Jack said bracingly, "If he'd just wanted to kill her, she'd never have left the cathedral alive.  He needed her for something."

Sydney's voice trembled slightly.  "Information."

"Or bait," said Jack somberly.

Sydney jumped up from the sofa and began to pace.  "I've got to find her, Dad.  I can't just let Sloane. . . "  She stopped, unwilling to voice the thought.  "I don't expect you to understand, but -,"

"Sit down, Sydney."

Sydney shot her father an irritated look.  "Dad, there's no time to lose.  I've got to -,"

"Sit. Down."  There was no mistaking the tone of his voice, and Sydney sat.  "It's been five days.  Sloane's not an amateur at extracting information.  If that's all he wanted from your mother, she's given it to him and she's dead."  His voice was flat, his face shuttered.  "There's nothing anyone can do for her now."

"Dammit!  How can you sit there and be so. . . unfeeling?" stormed Sydney. "She could have been tortured to death.  And you're analyzing it as if it were a crossword puzzle?"  

Jack gazed at her unblinking for several moments, his jaw working. "If she's alive," he finally continued, ignoring her outburst, "we need to assume she's being used as bait.  We'll need to move cautiously." 

"We?" 

"Whatever my personal feelings for Irina Derevko, she's your mother.  I wouldn't expect you to sit by idly while she was imprisoned and tortured.  On the other hand, I won't have you taking needless risks.  Particularly since *you* may be Sloane's objective."

"So you'll help Mom?  For me?" Sydney pressed gratefully.

"Yes."  Jack's eyes flickered briefly, then steadied.  "For you, sweetheart."

"Then where do we start?"

"We don't," said Jack, standing up and beginning to clear away the tapes.  "Finding your mother in Sloane's extensive network would take months, maybe years.  If I'm right. . . he'll come to us."

**

Sloane casually strolled into Irina's cell, a filthy and windowless storage room in an abandoned garage.  "Show time," he said cheerfully, dialing a number on his phone.  Irina, shackled hand and foot, cursed him in Russian.

"Yes?"  

"Sydney.  Arvin Sloane here."

"You!  If you've harmed my mother -,"

"Calm down, Sydney.  Right now she's only slightly the worse for wear."  He paused for emphasis.  "Right. Now." 

"What do you want?"

"The third item.  Delivered to me in Zurich.  Within 36 hours.  Or she dies.  Because, frankly, I find her a nuisance."  Sloane leered at Irina; Irina stared back at him, eyes glittering dangerously.

"Arvin."  Jack's clipped tones came through the phone.  Sloane smiled.  So he had interrupted a father-daughter moment, had he?

"Hello, Jack.  Tell me," Sloane asked conversationally, "how did you live with this shrew for ten years?  Five days and I've had it."  

"We do nothing without proof that she's still alive," replied Jack coolly.  "Let me talk to her."  

"We?" Sloane snickered.  "Your capacity for self-delusion astounds me.  I had thought that only Sydney would have an interest in her mother's welfare; clearly I've underestimated your tolerance for betrayal.  But here she is."  

Sloane stepped carefully around the puddles of oil and grease on the floor and held up the phone to Irina's face.  "Talk to him.  Tell him," he sneered, "how much you love him.  Maybe he'll fall for it again."

Pure hatred blazed momentarily in her eyes, quickly concealed.  Irina smiled thinly and said nothing.

"Now!" growled Sloane, pulling his gun and gesturing at her.  Irina shrugged and leant back against the wall, uninterested.  He stepped forward and roughly grabbed the broken arm, giving it a brutal twist.  Irina screamed in pain and fainted.

The hair on the back of Jack's neck stood on end as he heard the cry through the line.  He glanced quickly at Sydney, who was watching him closely, and took a deep breath to control his features.

"Best I could do," said Sloane into the phone.  "Convinced?  Or should I send you a finger?"

"That will be sufficient," said Jack evenly. _B*stard_.

"36 hours.  Zurich.  Oh, and a tip – you'll need the Rambaldi cube for the third item."  Sloane closed his cell phone with a snap.

**

"We have six hours to find this item and get out," Jack summarized, as they finished reviewing the survey maps in front of them.  Their plane was on its final approach path into Doha airport in Qatar.  Below them were visible the drilling rigs that accounted for 98% of the country's income; their cover was as reserve estimate specialists for a major oil company.

"That doesn't leave much time to get to Zurich."

"No.  I'll need to go straight there to make the exchange."  Jack glowered as Sydney cocked an eyebrow.  "Don't start.  We've discussed this more than enough.  You will *not* be there."

"But Dad. . . ,"

"But nothing, Sydney.  I've done everything I can to counter Sloane's home court advantage in Zurich; with luck we'll end up with this item as well as your mother.  But all the mercenaries in the world won't be able to prevent him from reactivating you if you get too close.  That's not a risk I'm prepared to take."  

Sydney glanced at him through her lashes.  Miss a chance to corner Sloane?  Unlikely.  

"I mean it, Sydney," said Jack warningly, correctly interpreting her look.  He hoped she wouldn't force him into the kind of pre-emptive action she loathed.

"We'll discuss it later," replied Sydney primly.  She watched as Jack rechecked his backpack.  "By the way, you never told me how you convinced the CIA to give you the Rambaldi fluid," she said, switching the subject.  "I wouldn't have thought they'd part with it for Irina Derevko."

"They didn't."

Sydney gave him a puzzled frown.  "Then how'd you get it?"

Jack looked at her and said nothing.

"Oh."

**

"Absolutely not.  You will *not* be there at the exchange."  Jack's exasperated voice rang off the walls of the passageway as they made their way through the cave.  "The next time I see Arvin Sloane I want to be focusing on rescuing your mother.  And how he's going to die.  Not on your safety."

"You don't think *I* might have an interest in . . . "  Sydney's voice stopped abruptly as the entered the main chamber.  "Dad, look!"

Jack raised his lantern and scanned the wall nearest to him, pausing long enough to identify the Rambaldi inscriptions on the wall.  His eyes brushed over them without interest and he lowered his lantern, trying to locate Sydney.  She was stationary in front of one in particular, a portrait of a young woman.  "She will be the one to bring forth my works. . . ," she whispered to herself.

Jack rolled his eyes.  "Get a grip, Sydney.  Let's just get this artifact and get out of here."  

Sydney looked up, sheepish.  "Right, Dad.  Look, the keyhole's right here."

Jack moved to join her, combining his lantern with hers to shine light on the engraving above.  Ancient Italian.  Slowly and clumsily he began translating.  "A key. . . an. . . inheritance?. . . "

Sydney shook her head.  "No Dad, it's:

_A key, a legacy, and a choice._

_All three must there be_

_To bring forth the piece which will complete_

_My greatest work _

_Without the key there can be no entry_

_Without the legacy there can be no promise_

_And without the choice my work will be consumed in burning anger_

Jack looked at her oddly.  "How'd you do that?"

"I don't know," Sydney replied puzzled.  "Maybe it was one of my dreams – in fact, the whole room feels familiar."

"Could you repeat it for me?"  When she was done, Jack groaned.  "Wonderful.  Of course we'd have to wade through some impenetrable, pointless riddle first."

"A key, a legacy, and a choice. . . ," murmured Sydney.  "I wonder what that means."

The scratch of a match in a corner of the room reverberated off the walls like a gunshot.  Sydney and Jack whirled guns up to see Arvin Sloane's face flickering in the flame, a specter whose image merged with the Rambaldi inscriptions behind him. He leant down and touched the match to his lantern.  "Perhaps I could assist." His tone was self-deprecating, but his eyes glinted sardonically.

"Sloane! What are you doing here?" gasped Sydney.

"Don't answer that," came Jack's steely voice as he fought to master his fear for Sydney.  "In fact, don't say a word, Arvin.  Or I'll put a bullet between your eyes."  

"That might be hazardous to Irina's health," Sloane pointed out reasonably.  And with that, 3 more lanterns were lit, illuminating the room with an eerie glow, and revealing Irina on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by three guards.

Bound hand and foot, mouth covered with duct tape, her right arm hung at an odd angle.  But although her face was creased with pain, her gaze remained defiant.  "I think the duct tape's an improvement, don't you, Jack?" observed Sloane reflectively.  

Jack's gaze briefly met Irina's.  Her message was clear.  _Shoot him now_.

"Why don't you both just put your guns down?" Sloane suggested calmly.  "It would be much more civilized."

"Wrong.  Tell them to lower their guns or we'll fire," said Jack impassively.  "Two on one, Arvin.  You lose."

Sloane shrugged, putting his hands in the air, and shifted his position slightly to move closer to Sydney.  "Whatever you say, Jack."

"Move away from him, Sydney," Jack ordered.

Sydney ignored her father, glaring at Sloane with repugnance.  "Why did you do it?" she hissed.  "Why did you steal two years of my life?"

Sloane shifted again, so that Sydney was now blocking Jack's angle.  "I wanted something that belonged to me."

"Sydney!  Move out of the way!"

"It's your choice, Julia," said Sloane softly, locking eyes with Sydney.

Sydney blinked and lowered her gun, swaying slightly.  "Dad?"

"Yes?" Jack and Sloane answered simultaneously.

"W-What's going on?  Why am I here?"

"I'll explain it later," said Sloane.  "Right now, we have a bit of a problem."  He glanced over her shoulder.

Julia turned, taking in Jack with his gun raised, dawning horror written across his face.  "You're Jack Bristow, aren't you?" she said with a flash of recognition.  "Nice to meet you."  She pulled her trigger and a deafening roar filled the cavern.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

"Ah, symmetry," murmured Sloane, his eyes alight.

"Drop your gun," Julia ordered.  "Now.  I won't ask again."

Jack head swiveled in shock from Julia to the red stain blooming on his left shoulder.  Instinctively his muscles tensed and adrenaline surged through his veins, shouting for him to drop and roll, to shoot his assailant with his right hand.  Slowly his gaze shifted back to his daughter. Finger by finger his grip loosened, and his gun clattered to the floor.

"On your knees.  Right hand on your head."

Wordlessly Jack complied, sinking to his knees, his left arm hanging limp at his side.  His shoulder screamed in agony, but the pain was nothing compared to the bitter despair that washed over him.  He did not, could not, look at Irina.

"I don't think you've been properly introduced, Jack.  Meet my daughter, Julia Thorne.  Julia, Jack Bristow."  Sloane jerked his head and one of the guards stepped forward, patting Jack down and binding his wrists with duct tape. 

Jack stifled a cry of pain as his arm was wrenched, but his eyes never left Julia's.  He searched for some sign of Sydney; he found only a stranger, remote and remorseless.  "It's your choice, Julia," he repeated dully, turning to Sloane.  "That was it, wasn't it?  Your trigger phrase."

Sloane nodded, triumphant.  "You have no idea how many years I've longed to ask her that question when you were present, and have her choose me, Jack."

Jack's lip curled with contempt.  "And that's the best you could do?  Program her response?"

Irina hunched over, trying to ease the pressure on her arm.  The tableau in front of her was only of moderate interest; while her heart ached for Jack, this was all just a prelude, she knew, to Sloane's real objective.  Her eyes swept the walls, pausing at the portrait of her daughter.  _The woman here depicted_. . .   They had all had a hand in making her what she was; she fervently hoped it would be enough.  And, she thought mirthlessly, that they would get out of this alive.  But first Jack had to swallow his damn pride and look at her.

"How did you do it?" asked Jack wearily.  "Get the trigger phrase from me."

Sloane waved his hand dismissively.  "Pharmaceuticals.  When we kidnapped you with the DiRegno heart ."  His eyes glimmered.  "An arcane passage from War and Peace, Jack?  How. . . touching.  I've always found these things are best kept short and easy to remember. . . "

Sloane paused in irritation as Irina thrashed violently, then smiled mockingly as he watched her struggle impotently against her bonds.  "Ah.  I see you agree, Irina," he jeered.  "What's that?  Can't answer?  Too bad."

Jack looked over then, at Irina, bracing himself for an assault of recrimination.  He was startled to find her gaze fixed on him, her eyes insistent.  He had missed something.  What?  Something about the trigger phrase?

At that moment Julia shifted, and Jack snapped his attention back, eying her warily.  Her eyes clouded for a moment then cleared.  She stepped forward, a knife sliding into her hand as she advanced towards Jack.  His eyes widened but he didn't flinch as she laid the knife against his throat.  Casually Julia increased the pressure, forcing him to tilt his head upwards.  "You're Sydney's father, aren't you?" she asked curiously.

"Yes."

Sloane's eyebrows rose.  "How do you know that, Julia?"

She shrugged.  "I'm not sure.  I've been having dreams.  He was in some of them."

"I'm. . . your. . . father. . . also," added Jack hoarsely, struggling to speak against the pressure of the blade.

Julia hissed in anger and the blade jumped slightly in her hand.  Jack could feel a warm trickle of blood down his neck.  

"I'd be careful there, Jack.  Julia is quite protective of me, as Irina found out last year."  Sloane turned to Julia and smiled broadly.  "Ignore him, my love.  Come over here – I've missed you."  

Julia stepped back and wiped her knife on Jack's shirt before resheathing it.  Lithely she made her way over to Sloane, flinging her arms around his neck.  Bile rose in Jack's throat as he watched her hug Sloane tightly.  

Julia stepped back and flicked a glance in Irina's direction.  "What's she doing here, anyway?"

"Ah, I thought you'd recognize her," replied Sloane easily.  "Tell me when you saw her last."

Julia's brow furrowed in thought.  "I was in a warehouse.  I'd been dreaming.  Vivid dreams, about Sydney.  She asked me questions about what I'd seen.  She claimed that she was my mother."  Her eyes clouded over again briefly.  "But she's Sydney's mother, isn't she?"

"That's right, Julia.  Not yours.  Yours died when you were six." A tiny frown was forming on Sloane's face.  "Perhaps we should finish here, and then I can answer all your questions at another time.  Do you remember this place?"

"Yes, I was here once before," said Julia.  "But I didn't stay.  I was. . . confused."

"I know," said Sloane reassuringly.  "Don't worry – it wasn't your fault.  Derevko was using hypnosis to set you against me.  We'll take care of her later."  Sloane shot a vengeful look at Irina.  "It's time now, Julia.  Are you ready?"

Julia nodded.  "Yes.  I think so."  She looked up and studied the inscription intently.  

_A key, a legacy, and a choice._

_All three must there be_

_To bring forth the piece which will complete_

_My greatest work _

_Without the key there can be no entry_

_Without the legacy there can be no promise_

_And without the choice my work will be consumed in burning anger_

She took a deep breath.  "First, the key."  Reaching into her pack she removed the key that she had mailed to Jack, inserting it into the keyhole and turning.  An audible clunking and grinding followed, concluding with a loud _thunk._  A small door opened to the right; a shallow basin was visible.

"Then the legacy," prompted Sloane.  Julia removed the vial of Rambaldi's fluid from Jack's pack and carefully poured a small amount into the basin and waited.  The basin smoothly receded into the wall with a soft _whoosh_.  Julia waited for a moment; another basin took its place.

"And now the choice," whispered Julia.  She hesitated.

"Julia?  You remember?  *You* are the chosen one," reminded Sloane.

"She's not the woman of the prophecy," snarled Jack.  "She's seen the sky of Mount Sebasio, remember?"

"Wrong.  Sydney did.  Julia didn't."  Sloane replied complacently.  "Look at Irina's face.  She's figured it out."  And indeed, when Jack looked over at her, all he saw was resignation.

Julia nodded.  "I am the chosen one," she said softly.  She pulled out her knife and, slicing her finger, allowed 3 drops of blood to fall into the basin and drain unseen into the wall behind.

The room crackled with tension as the 7 sets of eyes stared at the opening in the wall.  A faint rumble could be heard, and then an oddly shaped ovoid, studded with teeth of varying heights, deposited itself anticlimactically onto the basin where Julia's blood had been.  She reached out and carefully removed it, holding it to her lantern to get a better look.

Jack stared, then gazed at Sloane in bewilderment.  "It was all for that?"

Sloane coughed apologetically.  "Perhaps I have allowed a small misrepresentation to occur," he said, his overwhelming sense of triumph briefly making him positively jovial.  "Il Dire's message?  It wasn't 'peace'. It was 'piece'.  The final piece – a gear, really – required to activate Il Dire.  The rest of Il Dire's components could be assembled by the diligent, the dedicated, the -,"

"-obsessed? the criminally insane?" interjected Jack.

"But," continued Sloane, ignoring him, "final activation required a piece that Rambaldi himself guarded, in life and in death, which could only be accessed by the chosen one.  By Julia," he said in a caressing tone, as he stepped forward to take the artifact from her.  "Well done, my love."  

_I wanted something that belonged to me_.  Jack stomach churned as Sloane's strategy became clear.   "You're done with Sydney now, Arvin.  You've gotten what you came for.  For God's sake, deactivate her."  He swallowed.  "Please."  He was on his knees already, thought Jack.  He wouldn't plead for his own life. But he'd plead for Sydney's.

Sloane raised an eyebrow in astonishment.  "Give up Julia?  You think I activated her just for this?  Just to use her to complete this quest?  All our wedded life Emily and I wanted a child.  Sydney was the closest we ever had.  With Emily gone, Julia is all I have left."

"You sonovab*tch.  She's not your daughter."

Sloane waved his hand dismissively.  "We're talking about a biological accident, Jack.  From the time she was six she might as well have been a piece of furniture to you."

"I will never, *never*, let you do this to her."

Sloane shook his had sorrowfully.  "You won't get the choice, Jack.  Sadly, you're about to kill the only person that knows her release phrase."  Sloane's eyes gestured to Irina.

"Like hell," replied Jack, appalled.

Sloane smiled mirthlessly.  "Oh, yes, Jack.  Julia will do the honors, of course, but with your gun."

"You'd have her kill her own mother?!"

"The CIA will find you here unconscious," Sloane continued, unmoved.  "Surrounded by your dead wife, your gun, the key, and the Rambaldi cube.  A falling out among thieves.  I suppose you neglected to mention to the CIA that you were *borrowing* the Rambaldi fluid?"  

Jack's silence was Sloane's confirmation.

"Tch, tch.  Theft of government property.  Conspiracy.  Murder.  It will be a while before Julia and I see you again."

"Why," ground out Jack, "are you letting me live?"

"Because Irina didn't tell you the release phrase," said Sloane simply.  "She knew that telling anyone the release phrase was tantamount to signing a death warrant.  And that once I had it, I could disable it with time."  Sloane looked at him in amazement.  "Did you *never* wonder why she remained in hiding?"

"I thought -," Jack stopped.  

"You thought she was hiding because she was afraid of *you*?  Because of the pictures?" Sloane taunted.  "You fool.  She only gave me those pictures to keep you safe.  Once Julia told me she'd met Irina, I needed to take the people who could possibly deactivate her out of action.  You, and -,"

"Lazarey," breathed Jack.  Julia had tried to murder Lazarey.  "Julia was coming to see me right after. . . ," his voice trailed off, looking at the stranger that was his daughter, knife up her sleeve, and closed his eyes momentarily in defeat.  He would never have believed it possible.  

"Yes," said Sloane smugly.  "I told you the truth, Jack.  Irina *did* choose to send you to prison."

"Because the alternative was…"  Truth takes time, indeed, thought Jack. 

"Death.  A brilliant strategy, if I do say so myself..."

_Zugzwang_, thought Jack.  No way out.

". . . but enough chatter.  Julia and I have places to go.  People to see.  Julia, if you'd like to just pick up Jack's gun over there and dispose of Derevko. . . "

Jack blocked out the sound of Sloane and Julia discussing the exact distance and angle at which the shot should be taken to be most convincing.  Instead he swung his gaze over to Irina, his heart heavy with regret.  He had not trusted her; she had not trusted him.  She would die; he would go to prison; they would both lose their daughter.

Irina was not watching Julia either, he saw.  Her entire focus was on him.  Unwavering.  Intent.  What was she trying to tell him?  His breath caught in his chest.  What had Sloane said earlier when she had caught his attention?  The trigger phrase had been short.  Easy to remember.  _Like the release phrase_. 

A pet's name?  A quotation?  Blood pounded in his ears.  Why hadn't she taken the risk and told him everything?  The truth?

Julia raised the gun to Irina's head.  Irina looked at him steadily.

"Truth. . . takes time," he said, understanding at last.

Irina slumped in relief


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Sydney took a deep breath, her gun wavering in front of her mother's face, then she fired three times.  Before the guards on either side of Irina had hit the floor she had whirled to face Sloane.

Color drained from Sloane's face, but he recovered quickly.  "It's your choice, Julia," he said clearly.

Sydney's face did not change.  "I think you're right.  I think it is my choice."  

"Julia?" asked Sloane, puzzled.

"Sydney.  And Julia," she replied.  "One person, both memories.  Finally.  Put the artifact on the floor and take two steps back."

"Julia," Sloane began, "I -,"

Sydney flicked a knife that whistled past Sloane's ear, nicking it on the edge.  Involuntarily Sloane's hand went to the cut and he stared, stunned, at the blood on his fingers.  "I've shot my mother and my father," she said coldly.  "You're into symmetry.  Who do you think is next?"

Sloane put the artifact on the floor and took two steps backward.

"Now, reach into your back collar and remove the spare gun you keep there.  Put that on the floor as well."  Sloane looked hurt.  "Remember.  *Both* sets of memories," Sydney prodded.  A gun dropped to the floor.  

Sydney stepped forward, kicking away the gun and picking up the gear.  Her gaze swept the room.  Jack Bristow, rising to his feet, face drawn with pain and swaying from the blood lost from his shoulder.  Irina Derevko, eyes alert, bound and silenced by the duct tape.  Arvin Sloane, brow furrowed, mind racing.

"I *was* here six months ago," Sydney said conversationally.  "As Julia.  I read the inscription and knew I was the chosen one.  But the inscription doesn't refer to the chosen one.  It refers to a _choice_.  A choice whether or not to withdraw the final piece for Il Dire."

She turned over the piece in her hand, watching the flickering light play off the randomly shaped gear teeth.  "The one person that I loved in all the world," she glanced at Sloane, "was asking me to make that choice.  But in my dreams, he was someone else entirely.  *I* was someone else entirely.  And I knew that I couldn't make that choice until I knew the truth."  She looked at Sloane, a hint of apology in her eyes.  "Lazarey offered me that opportunity.  By that time I trusted none of you absolutely.  So I mailed the keys, and turned to the one person I knew I could trust.  Sydney.  

"And now," she said thoughtfully, "here I am again.  With more choices.  Am I Sydney or Julia?  CIA or assassin?  Child of the world's most dysfunctional parents, or of the world's greatest megalomaniac?"

"Sydney," said Jack softly.  "You don't need to make all those choices now.  You can take your time.  Only one choice needs to be made here."

Sydney looked at her father gratefully.  "Yes.  You're right, of course."

"Julia," interjected Sloane.  "You were given this choice because you are capable of wielding the power you hold in your hand wisely.  Rambaldi was a _genius_.  You were _chosen_.  Don't throw that gift away."

"You've dedicated your whole life to this moment, haven't you?" she asked him sadly.

"Yes," he replied simply.

Sydney walked over to Irina, and carefully removed the duct tape from her mouth.  She cocked an eyebrow in inquiry at her mother.

Irina smiled slowly.  "You already know the right choice," she said gently.  

Sydney laid a hand against her mother's cheek.  "Thank you," she whispered.  She turned and walked back to the opening in the wall.  "I choose - no."  She placed the gear back onto the basin and moved away.  After a moment a faint _whir_ could be heard, and the basin began to move slowly back into the wall.

"Good god, Julia!"  Sloane darted forward, his bloody hand outstretched.  With a mighty effort he reached the basin before it disappeared and, hand grazing the surface, snatched up the artifact.  Joyfully he hugged it close.  "You don't know what you're giving up, what you could -,"

Sloane stopped abruptly as a loud crack emanated from behind the wall.  The floor beneath his feet began to shake, and Sloane struggled to stay upright.  An unholy spark of glee lit Irina's eyes.  "Not very wise, Arvin.  *You* were not the chosen one."

Sloane looked at the piece in his hand in horror, then over at the basin, smeared with the blood from his fingers.  Any reply he might have made was terminated as the floor surrounding the opening in the wall began to descend precipitously.

Sydney, standing just on the perimeter of the area that was sinking, hurled herself to the edge and threw out her arm.  "Dad!  Grab my hand!"  With a leap, Sloane jumped and grabbed her just as the floor fell away, crashing to a stop 25 feet below.  For a brief instant they held each other, balanced, and then Sydney began to infinitesimally slide towards the rim.

"Sydney!  No!"  Jack threw himself on top of Sydney's legs, biting back a sob of pain as he landed on his shoulder.  Below them, oil had begun to seep from the walls of the bedrock, covering the floor.  As the oil reached Sloane's lantern, it began to blaze.  Jack's weight counter-balanced Sydney for a long moment, then they both began to slide along the sandy floor. 

"Dad, give me your other hand," cried Sydney desperately.  Sloane's other hand tightened around the artifact.  He shook his head in desperation.

"SYDNEY!  I CAN'T HOLD ON!"  Inch by inch, Sydney was slowly being pulled over the edge.  Desperately Jack tried to slow her slide, but his feet could not gain purchase on the smooth rock, and his bound hands were useless.  Jack himself was almost at the edge, and could see over it to Sloane, hanging onto Sydney's hand below the lip.

"Arvin.  For God's sake," Jack ground out.

Sloane looked up, catching Jack's eye, seeing his message, then down into the pit below him, now smoking with burning oil several feet deep and rapidly rising as the fissures in the rock widened with the heat.  He lifted his head to gaze once more at Sydney and, with an infinitesimal nod, released his grasp.  "Take care of her, Jack," he called as he fell, cartwheeling into the flaming pool.

"Dad!" wept Sydney.  Jack was not sure which of them she was addressing as he helped her pull back from the precipice.  "Go help your mother," he ordered, pushing her away from the sight of Sloane, flames up to the middle of his thighs, writhing in agony as his hands scraped the vertical walls of the pit, futilely seeking purchase with his oil-slick hands.

"Arvin!" Jack shouted, standing on the edge.

Sloane raised his head, his expression a mask of unbearable pain, his mouth contorted in a silent scream.  Jack lifted his bound arms together, a gun in his right hand and a question in his eyes.  Sloane studied him for a moment, then nodding, turned to face him, arms outstretched.  Once more, the sound of a gunshot filled the cavern.  Jack watched somberly as Sloane slowly slipped below the surface of the oil and was consumed.

**

They sat in silence in their jeep a half-mile away.  The heat from the fire had destabilized the cavern; their exit had been hastened by an ominous rumbling as the foundations realigned and shifted, raining debris on them during their sprint to the exit.  The ground beneath them began to shudder and, as they watched, the cave roof collapsed inward with a mighty roar, flames shooting upwards into the sky.

 "_And without the choice_,_"_ whispered Sydney, "_my work will be consumed by a burning anger_."


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37 (One week later)

Jack indifferently flipped through the pages of his in-flight magazine and then stuffed it back into the seat pocket in disgust.  His shoulder ached, but no matter how he rearranged himself he was unable to find a comfortable position.  Discreetly he rubbed it.

"Shoulder bothering you, Dad?" came the voice from the next seat over.  "Can I get you a pillow?"

"No," he said grumpily.  He leaned back and closed his eyes to avoid any more conversation.

Sydney looked at him shrewdly out of the corner of her eye.  Of course it hurt.  She knew from personal experience.  But she suspected that wasn't the problem.

_Sydney glanced in the rearview mirror and sighed.  After a flurry of phone calls by Irina on their sat phone, there had been only silence from the back seat of the jeep on its journey back to the airport.  The silence had grown more oppressive with each passing minute; the faces of her parents, creased with pain, more impenetrable.  It was with relief that she finally pulled up to the private jet, loading supplies, fuel, and medical gear, and helped each of them board.  It was only once each had been sedated, however, that the palpable tension finally disappeared._

If only she could have kept them sedated all week, she thought to herself irritably_.  _She looked over at her father, the stillness of his expression a tip-off that he was only pretending to sleep. "Dad," she prodded, "when will you be seeing Mom again?"

Jack grimaced, but kept his eyes closed.  "When she needs me," he replied evenly.  "As always."

_He awoke in a large four-poster bed, the rays of sunlight streaming through the window warming him where he lay.  His arm, he noticed, was in a sling; the large wad of bandages swathing his shoulder suggested that surgery had come and gone.  He observed gratefully that whichever painkiller had been used was still functioning well._

_He scanned the room and realized he recognized it - a spare bedroom of Irina's villa.  He had used it occasionally until… his mind shut down the thought.  There was much he and Irina had to discuss; he would wait for her to come to him.  She owed him that._

But she never had.  And really, what was there to discuss?  All of them now knew the whole story.  Her love for Sydney had caused her to take repeated risks to allow their daughter to reclaim her life; he would be forever grateful.  And rather than betraying him, she had undoubtedly saved his life by assisting Sloane in sending him to prison.  He supposed he should be grateful for that as well, although it had clearly cost her nothing but a few pictures to execute.

_He remained in his room the entirety of the first two days.  A nurse made several brief appearances to change his bandage and bring him some easy to digest and impossible to identify meals, and Sydney had stopped by once.  Her eyes had been dark, her expression troubled; as the week progressed he grew to recognize the signs when his daughter was struggling with her own demons.  Julia had assassinated five different people over the two-year period; Sydney was devastated.  No stranger to moral ambivalence, Jack had comforted her for over an hour._

_The third day, famished, he had made his way down to the kitchen.  Rummaging through the refrigerator he had found what he needed; awkwardly he attempted to make himself a sandwich with his right hand.  When it had come time to slice the meat he paused, momentarily at a loss._

_"Hold the meat.  I'll slice."  Jack jumped as Irina appeared next to him, wielding a knife.  Her other arm, like his, was in a sling._

_"Careful," he grumbled, as her knife came close to his thumb at one point._

_She sniffed and made no reply._

_"Thanks."  He looked at her warily, but could think of no safe topic of conversation.  He'd be damned if he'd talk about the weather.  "Where's Sydney?" he finally asked._

_"Out running.  Working things out.  She's finding the blending of her memories… difficult."_

_Jack nodded and hesitated again.  "Thank you. . . ,"_

_A light flared in Irina's eyes._

_". . . for helping Sydney," he said formally._

_And was just as quickly extinguished.  "Of course," replied Irina evenly.  "She's my daughter."_

_Jack waited a moment to see if Irina would say anything else; when it was clear she would not, he picked up his sandwich and left, feeling somewhat aggrieved.  He had given her an opening; she hadn't taken it. _

_Perhaps she had nothing to say._

He had lasted for four more days of stilted conversations and covert side glances.  They mutually agreed that it was safe to discuss Sydney, and did so, albeit cautiously.  They were both worried about her; each successive day appeared to bring a new revelation about Julia's life.  Some she discussed with her father, some with her mother.  Sometimes Sydney would return from one of her frequent runs hard-edged and brittle; other times fragile and weepy. 

_Jack watched through the conservatory window as Sydney set off once again.  He envied her.  He felt like a caged animal; much of the day was spent pacing.  If only…if only…if only she had told him that Sydney was alive…if only she hadn't abandoned him, yet again, as soon as he stopped being useful…if only she hadn't allowed him to play the fool for the last year-and-a-half, wandering in the dark…if only she'd come to him then…now…if only she'd trusted him._

_He slammed his glass down on the table.  Whatever he was waiting for was not going to happen.  It was time to leave._

Jack's mind drifted as the engine from the plane droned in the background, and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

**

Irina wandered aimlessly through the first floor of her villa.  They were gone; she had her life back again.  Just what she wanted, she thought mirthlessly to herself.

_"This would have gone better if you hadn't waited a week to see me," said her doctor reprovingly.  "If you had contacted me sooner, the damage would not have been as extensive."_

_Irina waved her good arm airily.  "I was. . . tied up for a while.  How long in the cast?"_

_"Two months."_

_Irina scowled.  "Fine.  And your other patient?"_

_"It took a while, but we found the bullet.  Intact, fortunately.  Mostly soft tissue damage, although he lost a lot of blood.  He should be back on his feet in a day or two, out of the sling in a week."_

_"Thank you."  She watched the doctor as he left her room.  It was good to be back, she thought as she surveyed the familiar surroundings.  Infinitely better than some of the hellholes she'd been hiding in over the past three months.  She leant back against the pillows of her bed, momentarily pampering herself.  The bed was large.  And, she added to herself with a spurt of honesty, looking empty.  The last time it had not been empty… firmly she clamped down on her thoughts._

_There was much she and Jack had to discuss; she would wait for him to come to her.  He owed her that._

But he had not come.  Annoyance had been followed by hurt, closely followed by anger and then, finally, resignation.  He had thanked her for taking care of their daughter.  That, itself, had been a stretch for him she could see.  In the end, the only thing they had been able to agree on was Sydney.  

Irina had observed her daughter's struggle that week with sorrow.  The restlessness, the volatility, the urge to drive herself relentlessly on her long runs to the point of exhaustion.  More than ever, she saw herself in Sydney.  Or, more accurately, in the parts of Julia that Sydney retained.  It was not a heartening thought.

_"You shot Simon Walker?"_

_Jack looked up from the chair in which he had been sitting, pretending to read a book.  "Yes," he said briefly.  _

_"Good."_

_Jack's eyebrow raised fractionally._

_"Without. . . revealing things Sydney asked me to keep in confidence," said Irina, a minatory look in her eye, "if you hadn't, I would have."_

_For a brief moment a look passed between them of complete understanding.  And then Jack had bent his head down again, to reread the same page yet again._

Perhaps they had had too much to say to know where to begin.  Or perhaps. . . with Sydney safe. . . there was nothing left to say.

She stepped into her study and paused.  As instructed, the chess sets had been set up again in the corner where they had resided for the past 15 months, unless she had been traveling.  A reminder of a time when he had trusted her.  Even if it had been anonymously.  She approached the nearest and picked up the black king, gently rubbing it between her fingers, as she studied the board.  _Zugzwang_, she thought to herself absently. No matter what they did, they lost.


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

_Omnifam President Reported Missing, Feared Dead_

_Arvin Sloane, internationally known head of the world health organization Omnifam, was reported missing today at a press conference at the company's headquarters in Zurich.  Last seen at a charity benefit in Brussels on the 23rd, Mr. Sloane was observed departing in a black limousine, destination unknown.  Police have appealed for anyone with information regarding Mr. Sloane's whereabouts to contact them directly.  Omnifam has long been a leader in. . ._

Putting down his paper to take another bite of breakfast, Jack wondered idly if he should start a scrapbook.  He looked up in mild surprise as Sydney slid into the seat opposite his.  "Good morning, sweetheart," he said easily.

"Morning, Dad."  Sydney waited until the waitress finished pouring her coffee before leaning forward.  "So, were there any problems?" 

"Problems?" repeated Jack blandly.

"With the Rambaldi cube," she said in a low voice.

Jack waved a hand dismissively.  "Bureaucratic mix-up.  The CIA thought the DSR had it; the DSR thought the CIA had it; it was actually found on a back shelf in an unused storage room."  His eyes twinkled.  "_Shocking_ mismanagement of government property."

Sydney rolled her eyes and took a sip of coffee.  Jack studied her surreptitiously.  Her personality was still volatile; while it was too early to say, it appeared she would end up as Sydney with a Julia edge, rather than Julia with a Sydney edge.  But it varied.  On a recent Julia day, he had overheard her telling Vaughn to "get some balls or get the h*ll out of Ops."  Perhaps, he mused to himself, the changes weren't all bad.  "Where have you been this morning?" 

Sydney grew pensive.  "At Arvin and Emily's grave."  

Not a muscle moved in Jack's face.  "I see.  Has the tombstone arrived yet?"

"Yes."

Jack took a deep breath, willing himself to relax.  Supportive.  He needed to be supportive.  "If you'd like," he said carefully, "I could go with you one day."

Her eyes flew to his face.  "You understand," she said gratefully.  

"I think so.  You have happy memories of him, ones that you mourn.  So," he said reflectively, "do I."  

"And I haven't forgotten that he was a psychopath, the person responsible for Danny and Francie's deaths.  It's just that -,"

"I know.  For a period of your life, he may have been the only person who gave you a reason to laugh."  Jack was pleased with the steadiness of his voice.  That particular revelation of Sydney's, as she had begun integrating the memories of Sydney and Julia, had been devastating.

Sydney took her hand in his and squeezed reassuringly.  "Thanks, Dad." 

"But perhaps you shouldn't mention it to your mother?" he suggested.  "Her recent memories of Sloane might, er, color her perspective."

Sydney shot him a hopeful look.  "Have you heard from her?"

"No," said Jack shortly.  He turned his attention to his breakfast, hoping to forestall any further conversation.

Sydney ground her teeth in frustration.  "I'm not getting any younger, Dad.  Do you suppose the two of you will talk again in my lifetime?"

"Sydney," Jack began warningly.  This happened every time she thought about the Sloanes and their 'perfect' marriage.  Perfect, with the exception that he'd lied to his wife for 20 years and she'd been shot while he was evading arrest.  "It takes two to talk."

"I'd settle for one, right now.  She protected me, she didn't betray you.  You told me yourself that the two of you were close before you went to prison.  What's the problem?"  She glared at him accusingly.

"It's not my f -," he stopped abruptly.  He wasn't five.  But the martial light in Sydney's eye was new.  She didn't back off as easily as she used to, he thought to himself, sighing inwardly.  "Sydney, it's a trust issue.  She found out you were alive; she didn't tell me.  She went ahead and took matters into her own hands.  If I had known, a lot of things could have been different."

"Oh. . . ," said Sydney meditatively. "Do you think it's possible she was afraid to tell you the truth?"

Jack snorted.  "Your mother's not afraid of anything.  And besides, if she didn't have the courage to tell me what might have been an uncomfortable truth. . . ," his voice trailed off and his brows snapped together in irritation.  

Watching him with interest, Sydney said nothing.

 "I see what you're doing.  Implying that what your mother did to me is the same as what I did to you.  But it's not.  She has repeatedly lied to me. . . ," he stopped, face flushing. 

Sydney raised one eyebrow.

Jack got to his feet and threw down his napkin.  "Dammit, Sydney, the mistakes I made were because I loved you.  It's not the same."  He tossed some bills on the table and stalked out.

"Of course not," Sydney murmured to the empty table.  "I forgave you."

**

"There's a problem," said Jack into his cell phone.  In front of him on his kitchen table lay 22 files, carefully organized and cross-checked.  "There must be a missing file."

"Mr. Bristow, my contact at the prison assured me that those were the files of every prisoner that's used that exercise block in the past two months."

"That's not possible," snapped Jack.  "Have him check again."  He hung up without waiting for a reply.

Who are you? he muttered to himself, looking again at the files.  Serial murderers, child sex-offenders, gang leaders, snitches.  All had used the exercise block in the solitary confinement wing.  And none had been discharged in the past 3 weeks.  Even more problematic – none had been there for more than 7 months.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39 

Sydney paused at the entrance to her mother's study.  The air was fragrant with beeswax; she could see that the desk at which her mother sat had been polished until it glowed.  Her eyes flicked around the room casually and she noted that it was much as it had been when she had been there as Julia.

"Was I expecting your visit?" queried her mother, turning in pleasure to see her daughter.  

"I happened to be in the neighborhood," replied Sydney, giving her mother a careful hug to avoid the sling.

Irina looked at her quizzically.

"I was meeting with Sloane's lawyer in Zurich."

Irina's expression remained one of polite interest, concealing an inward surge of antipathy.  She still couldn't believe Jack had put Sloane out of his misery.  If it had been up to her. . . she allowed herself to fantasize for a moment.

"He. . . I'm. . . his primary beneficiary," said Sydney in a rush, interrupting Irina's thoughts and looking distinctly ill at ease.  "Of course, he's still officially listed as missing.  It will be years before. . . "

". . . before you become a very rich young woman?" finished her mother.  She looked at her daughter shrewdly.  "Which part of that makes you uncomfortable?"

"All of it," confessed Sydney miserably, looking down.  "I know he meant it as a gift of love, but I can't help thinking about where that money came from."  

Gazing at the floor, Sydney missed the brief tightening of her mother's face.  What would Sydney's reaction be in the future to her own bequest?  She pushed the thought out of her mind.  "Perhaps," her mother said easily, "you could consider supporting some of the charities Arvin obviously thought important in later life?  Children's health programs, medical research?  That way you could be true to his memory as well as your own conscience."  She gritted her teeth.  The things she did for her daughter. . . go into hiding for months. . . risk death. . . mention Sloane and charity in the same sentence. . . 

Sydney smiled gratefully.  "I'll think about it, Mom.  Thanks."  She stepped towards the window and admired the garden.  "It's always so peaceful here.  Serene."

Since Sydney and Jack had left, thought Irina to herself.  "How's your father?" she asked off-handedly, her tone deliberately light.

Sydney's shoulders tightened as she studied the garden a moment more.  "You know, every time you see me you ask about Dad."  She turned around and gave her mother a piercing glance. "Perhaps you should ask him yourself?" she said, a slight edge to her voice.  "Or doesn't your phone work?"

"Sydney - ,"

"Oh, please," said Sydney, exasperated. "What, exactly, is preventing you from talking to him?  This time?"

Irina's expression closed.  "I don't think my relationship with your father is an appropriate topic -,"

Sydney snarled in frustration.  "Fine.  You want to know how he is?  He's been to hell and back over the past 16 months.  He's been betrayed, imprisoned, humiliated, lied to, and shot by his daughter while having not a single clue about what was really happening.  He's lonely and he's heartsick.  And he blames himself for everything that happened to me, even though it was one mistake 25 years ago.  There," she said, eyes flashing.  "Have I answered your question?" 

"Yes.  Thank you."  Irina's face had whitened, but her voice was even.  Only her eyes betrayed her, a brief stricken glance quickly concealed.

"Mom," said Sydney repentantly, taking a step forward and placing her mother's hand between hers, "why is it so difficult?"  She rubbed her mother's cold hand soothingly.

Irina shook her head wearily.  "I don't know, Sydney.  It just is. I was hoping that once your father learned the truth about what had happened – from you, from Lazarey, from Sloane – that he might begin to understand.  But I think he's been burned too many times to trust again.  Nothing I can say or do will make one bit of difference."

"But -,"

"Just leave it, Sydney."

**

Irina sat immobile at her desk after Sydney left, staring blindly at the papers in front of her.  _Nothing I can say or do will make one bit of difference_.  Damn Sydney for forcing her to say that aloud.  To acknowledge that if Jack had not yet come, he was not coming at all.

She ran her hand over the smooth, polished surface of the aged desk.  Time, her ally.  Her vision blurred; it was time. . . to move on.

**

Jack picked dispiritedly at his dinner, finally pushing the plate away.  "How was your trip to Zurich?" he asked his daughter, who sat across from him at his dining room table.

"Fine," she responded testily.  In fact, she had spent the entire trip back on the plane fuming about the intransigence of her parents.  And plotting elaborate strategies that would result in the two of them being trapped on a desert island.  For a month.

"I don't suppose," Jack began diffidently, "you had a chance to -,"

"I'll clear," said Sydney, jumping to her feet in irritation.  If he asked her about her mother, she would scream.  Perhaps it wouldn't need to be a desert island, she thought; a small prison cell or a locked broom closet would work just as well.  Scooping up the plates and utensils, she made her way into the kitchen.  Jack heard the kitchen faucet, then, "Dad, what're these?"

Jack looked up and, to his consternation, saw Sydney flipping through one of the files on his kitchen table.  "Nothing," he said, jumping to his feet and coming along side of her.  Firmly he removed the file from her hand.  "Leave the plates.  I'll clean up later."

"Nice try," replied Sydney dryly, picking up another and flipping through it.  Her eyes widened.  Jack ran his hand through his hair and waited as Sydney scanned through several more.  "Planning a reunion?" she asked quizzically.

"Funny."  Jack paused, a hint of red creeping up his neck.  "I'm trying to find one person in particular."

Sydney's hand froze in mid-air as she took in Jack's words and heightened color.  "Um, Dad?  Is this something that could be categorized as too much information?  Because if it is," she said, dropping the file in her hand as if she'd been scalded, "you don't need to tell me."  She took a deep breath.  "I'll always love you, of course. . . ," her voice trailed off as she bit her lip uncertainly.

Jack stared at his daughter for a moment, puzzled, then barked a laugh.  "Sydney, solitary confinement is *solitary*.  I'm not looking for my boyfriend."

"Of course not," Sydney stammered, relief evident on her face.  "But then what *are* you doing?"

"Remember I told you that there was one particular prisoner with whom I played chess?"

Sydney nodded.

"I thought I'd.. . . uh. . . look him up."  

"Oh," said Sydney in understanding.  She shot a glance at her father.  Yes, he could certainly use a friend.  "And which one of these fine, upstanding citizens will you be introducing yourself to?"

"Still to be determined.  I don't think I've seen all the files."  

She scanned the table.  "So you must really like chess, if you're going to all this trouble.  Can't you find someone else to play with?"  

Jack shrugged.  "Prison does funny things to you.  The smallest kindness becomes incredibly important in your life.  He was there when I needed it most. . . someone I could count on.  I'd like to repay the favor."

Sydney's brow furrowed.  "I don't think I remember seeing you play chess when I was growing up."

"No," replied her father.  "Your mother didn't play, and I was waiting until you were six or seven to teach you. . . ," He paused, his eyes turning bleak.  "I guess. . . I guess I never got around to it."    

Sydney gave him a quick hug.  "You could teach me now," she offered.  "It will give you someone to play until this guy turns up."

Jack stared down at his daughter, momentarily overcome.  "You. . . you are. . . ," he swallowed.  "Come with me," he said abruptly.  He took her by the hand and led her into his library.   "Pull up a chair."  He waved at the chess set in the corner, an antique with beautifully carved ivory and ebony pieces.

They spent an enjoyable hour together.  Sydney was pleased at the end to have checkmated her father; Jack was pleased that he'd avoided beating her in five moves.  

Sydney leaned back in her chair, examining her queen in the light.  "Mom's got a set like this," she observed.  "Why didn't the two of you ever play together?"

Jack snorted.  "Your mother?  She hated chess.  Called it a boring game for old men.  I'm surprised she even has a chess set."

"She has two, actually.  She keeps them in her study."  

"Did you say. . . two?" Jack's attention, which had been wandering, was now riveted on Sydney.  "They weren't there when you and I were there last."

"I think she usually travels with them.  She must have unpacked them after we left.  They were there when I visited her yesterday," said Sydney unconcernedly.  She shifted in her chair and began to set up the pieces again.  "Want to play another game?"

Hearing no response, Sydney looked up at her father, who was looking thunderstruck.  "Sydney," Jack asked as he refocused on his daughter, voice studiously casual, "Those chess sets.  Were the pieces all lined up like you're doing now?  As if she were about to start a game?"

"No, actually."  Sydney smiled ruefully.  "I remember one time, while waiting for her to get off a phone call, I started straightening up one of the boards.  She was not. . . happy."

"I see," said Jack, standing up purposefully.

"Where are you going?  What about our game?"

"I just realized," he said, looking happier than Sydney could remember, "I have another game to finish."


	40. Chapter 40

A/N:  If you've reached this point, my thanks.  I had enormous fun writing this, I hope you enjoyed reading it.

********************************

Chapter 40

"You cheated."  

Irina's hand tensed on her pen as she heard the familiar voice behind her, but her features were smooth as she turned to face Jack.  He leant casually against the doorframe to her study, arms crossed on his chest, face unreadable.  "It's nice to see you, too," she replied, her voice cool.  "What happened to my security?"

"Occupied," he said briefly.  "Shame you took me off the guest list."  Jack advanced into the room, eyes sweeping it for changes.  In the corner stood two chessboards, each mellowed with age, which had not been there during his prior visit.  He recognized the positions of the pieces instantly.  "You used chess boards," he said accusingly.

Irina's eyes narrowed dangerously.  "I was a little preoccupied at the time, but perhaps you should just add that to the list of my transgressions," she snapped.  "I assume you're here to discuss Sydney.  How is she?"

"To hell with Sydney," Jack growled in exasperation.  "For the past 2-1/2 years that's all we've talked about." He took a step into the room.

"Really?" she replied icily.  Black turtleneck, black pants, eyes dark, she noted subconsciously, wanting to scream in frustration.  "I didn't realize there was anything else."

A muscle jumped in Jack's jaw.  "I think there might be," he responded evenly, taking another step forward.  "Why didn't you tell me about the chess games?"  His eyes bored into hers. 

"You didn't ask," she retorted.  "A shame you flew halfway around the world to discuss a tedious board game."  She turned back to her desk, saying over her shoulder "You can leave the same way you got in."

 "A tedious -," Jack stopped, incredulous.  "Dammit, Irina!"    

Irina turned back to him, an expression of polite disdain on her face.

Jack wanted to throttle her.  "For more than a year, those games were the only thing that kept me sane."  He shook his head in disbelief.  "Every day, for 15 months, you would have had to drop what you were doing to make those moves.  No matter where you were in the world.  While you were dodging Sloane, or tracking Sydney, or coercing Lazarey.  You don't even *like* chess."

"No."  A brief smile flitted across her face.  "It's too bloodless."

"Then why did you do it?" he demanded.

Irina didn't respond.  Jack took another step forward.

"Why?" he repeated softly, reaching out and gently tilting her chin.  His brown eyes were warm.

"I - ," Irina swallowed and looked away.  "Why are you here?"

"To finish the game."

Her eyes snapped back and searched his face for a long moment.  She smiled a slow smile. "I'll win," she warned.

"Perhaps."  Jack's smile matched hers.  "It all depends on your move."

"You're not talking about chess."

"No, I'm not.   I'm here; I made the first move.  It's your turn."

Irina studied him for a moment longer, then gestured for him to follow as she made her way to the closest chessboard.  She reached out and shifted her pawn forward one space.  "H6," she said, looking at him expectantly.

"Damn. You did it again."  Jack looked over her shoulder.  "_Zugzwang_."

"_Zugzwang_," Irina agreed. "You can concede, if you'd like," she added magnanimously, but her eyes continued to rest on him, pensive.

Jack reached out and tipped over his king with an outstretched finger, looking thoughtful.  "You picked that strategy on purpose, didn't you?  All those times."

Irina's eyes flickered.  "Yes," she admitted.  "I hoped that. . . one day. . . you'd understand the choice I'd been faced with."  She picked up the king and cradled it in her hand.

"Prison or death," he said quietly.  "Lose no matter which move you make."

Irina looked away, the chess pieces swimming in front of her.  "You. . . don't know how hard it was," she said, voice low.  "Not the choice," she clarified.  "That was. . . obvious.  But knowing that I'd created that opportunity for Sloane by not telling you immediately about Julia.  That you were in prison. . . because I'd been a coward."

Jack was silent for a moment.  "Why didn't you tell me about Julia?" he asked, throat tight.

Irina looked down at her hands, clenched around the chess piece.  "When I first saw her, when I realized Sydney was alive, I couldn't wait to tell you.  And then I met her. . .  ," her voice wavered, "and realized what she was.  An assassin.  Sloane's daughter.  And," Irina took a deep breath, "the embodiment of every mistake I had ever made.  Crippling you.  Abandoning her.  Providing the intel that made the additional conditioning possible.  I was. . . devastated, and suddenly the thought of telling you was more than I could bear."

"Why?"  The word, uttered softly, seemed to echo through the room.

"I. . . you and I. . . ," she paused, at a loss for words.  It was her move.  This game was too important to lose.

Jack reached out and took one of her hands in his, squeezing it reassuringly.

Irina focused on his hand.  It was easier, somehow.  "I know this is hard to understand.  But what we had together was so fragile; I was afraid it might not survive the truth.  And I. . . desperately. . . wanted it to survive.  I thought if I could deactivate her first, then I could tell you.  Then everything would be all right."  She sighed.  "But of course it wasn't.  I miscalculated Sloane's reaction and he, the b*stard that he was, perfectly calculated mine."

She turned and faced him.  "I know that this is long delayed and spectacularly inadequate.  But I'm sorry."  She noticed with a relief beyond words that he had not released her hand.

"And afterwards?  When I got out?"

Irina grimaced.  "I knew Sloane would tell you where those pictures came from.  Or you would figure it out for yourself."

"Yeah," drawled Jack.  "Nice shot."

"There are more where that one came from." Her eyes glinted mischievously in response to his look of alarm, but she sobered quickly, "Once you had identified the source of the pictures, you wouldn't trust anything I said.  I had to wait for Sloane to play out his hand.  It was just a matter of time."

"Truth takes time," Jack murmured.  

"Yes."  Irina exhaled slowly, her hand warm in his.  "I think," she said in relief, "it's your move, now." 

He reached up and lightly rubbed his thumb against her cheek.  A month earlier he had crashed his pistol against it in fury.  His lips tightened.  "Prison was not. . . easy," he admitted.  "I wasn't beaten or starved, but I seemed to be the favorite extracurricular activity of the NSC psychologists.  I had to trust you absolutely, and without reservation.  That you would find Sydney and help her.  I staked everything on that."

He stopped for a moment, lost in thought.  Irina watched him intently.

"When I got out, you were nowhere to be found.  I was. . . hurt, I guess.  I needed you, someone I could trust, who would understand.  It became painfully obvious to me that I had overestimated our relationship."  Irina said nothing, but her hand tightened on his.   "When it also became clear that there was no evidence linking you to Sydney's return, I began to wonder.  Then, of course, Sloane straightened me out."  Jack swallowed painfully.  "I felt like the world's biggest fool.  Protecting you when you had actually been the one who set me up."  He hesitated.

"Again," said Irina, tensed.

"Again," agreed Jack quietly.  "I stopped thinking clearly.  Suddenly everything pointed to you; every action of yours was suspect.  Sloane played me perfectly."  He stroked her cheek again.  "I should have known better.  I'm sorry."

Irina stood silent, mesmerized by the motion of Jack's hand on her face.

"You never answered my question about the chess," Jack said caressingly.

"Surely it isn't my move again?" she asked plaintively.

"Chess," he responded firmly.

Irina sighed in resignation.  "I'm not exactly a stranger to solitary confinement.  The mental stress is the worst part."  Jack nodded.  "The smarter you are, the worse it can be.  I knew from my sources that they'd isolated you – no visitors, no books, no writing materials – and it quickly became apparent that it would take Andrian some time to deactivate Sydney."  She paused, twirling the king in her fingers.  "I worried about you," she said simply.

"You worried about me," repeated Jack gravely, although his eyes twinkled.  "So you decided to play a *tedious* board game with me?  A file in a cake wouldn't have been a better option?"

Irina rolled her eyes.  "I knew what you needed - a sense of time and a focus.  Chess did both.  You had to think strategically, across multiple days, to succeed, and you had to remember the board."

"Two boards," Jack interjected pointedly.

Irina gave him a withering look.  "Fine. *Two* boards.  And it could be coded.  Plus," she bit her lip, shooting him a covert glance, "it gave me a way to maintain contact with you.  Daily.  Even after you got out."

Jack raised an eyebrow.

"I missed you," she admitted.  She lightly rubbed the king with her thumb.

Jack pulled his gaze away from the chess piece in her hand.  "You know, there's a prison guard who's been milking us for more than three months.  Receiving substantial payments to exchange phone messages."

"I wouldn't worry, he should be easy to find.  He's the one -,"

"With the Ferrari?" suggested Jack, mentally calculating the take over 15 months.

"Yes."

"I'm tempted to let him keep it."

"Feeling generous?" asked Irina curiously.

"Very."  He reached out and pulled her towards him.  "It's my turn."  Bending his head towards hers, he lightly brushed her lips.  "Thank you. For everything." 

Irina's eyebrows raised in a silent query.  Jack hesitated, his lips hovering above hers, then placing his hand behind her head, dipped again. Slanting his head against hers, his tongue traced her lower lip before demanding entrance to her mouth.  As she captured his tongue and began to suck hungrily, heat surged through him. Stifling a moan, he staggered backwards. 

"Does that mean I've won?" asked Irina smugly.

"I think it means we both have," he replied breathlessly.  His forehead furrowed as a thought suddenly occurred to him.  "If you were so worried about me, why didn't you let me win?"

Irina's eyes began to dance.  "I did.  Half the games." 

Jack's head snapped back in disbelief.  "Are you claiming that the games I won were because you threw them?"

"Did I forget to mention that my uncle was the Russian grandmaster?" she asked sweetly.

"Perhaps you'd like to wager a little money on a rematch?" he suggested blandly.  "Best 3 out of 5?"

"To be honest, Jack, I'm a little tired of chess."  She stroked the chess piece in her hand suggestively.  "I was thinking that it might be time for a new game."

Jack, who had been fighting his jealousy of the chess piece for several minutes, inhaled sharply.  "Which game," he inquired in a meaningful tone, "did you have in mind?"  He advanced towards her.

Slowly she backed up, colliding with the desk.  She reached down and stroked the rich patina of the antique surface, warm in the light from the setting sun outside her window.  Time, her most trusted ally.  She looked up into Jack's eyes, alight with laughter and love.

Yes, it was about _time_.

*fin*


End file.
